Chapter Thirty-seven

The vehicle that pulled up to the side of the road three minutes later was all Jam—a black BMW M3 that skidded to a halt in front of Andy.

“What are you doing here?” Andy asked as she got in. “Where’s David? He’s supposed to pick me up for the gig with the lawyer tonight.”

“Something came up. I’ve got a job for you first. Won’t be long—an hour? I dug up something on Phillipe Lautrec that could be useful.”

“What did you find?” Andy locked her boots into the corners of the footwell as Jam rapidly pounded the shift up and down, reaching speeds that seemed impossible in the early evening traffic.

“Lautrec made a payment to a dodgy restaurant in Little Odessa. One that belongs to Natalya Kuznetsova.”

Andy groaned. That name again. Marat Sharapov’s boss. Did the Russians really kill Arlene Hampton as a warning to the Norwegian prime minister?

Jam nodded. “Yep. The one and only. Anyway, Lautrec tried to cover his tracks, but I found the payment. Problem is, I think the cops will also discover it pretty soon.” Jam tilted her head in Andy’s direction. “Better you get at it before Wright starts to ask the questions.”

“What was the payment for?”

“I can’t quite figure it out.” Jam looked tortured by the thought. “It’s like we have a lot of pieces of the puzzle but we’re unable to put it all together. All I know is that this is too much of a coincidence, and Kate agrees. The Russians following Hampton. Her murder. Sandberg’s UN speech. Her trying to strong-arm the Russian president. And now Lautrec is also somehow involved, even though I don’t know what he would gain by working with the Russians. Maybe he gets the Fortress business to himself? Maybe there’s a money trail I’m not seeing? A huge payment from the Russians for him to help get rid of Arlene Hampton? Who knows? Anyway. That’s why we’re sending in the troops. Cue you, Captain Fantastic.”

Andy tightened the seat belt around her torso as Jam skidded around a corner, hitting the brakes at the sea of red lights in front of her. Jam consulted her phone, reversed a few yards, and turned left.

“Okay. Where exactly are we going?” Andy couldn’t plot a course from Jam’s haphazard driving.

“The Crimson Parlor is an upmarket strip club in Midtown.” Jam pushed a flash of purple hair from her face. “Lautrec normally goes there early on a Thursday. Seems like he has a standing arrangement for a private dance by Kandy, with a K. She’s an edgy Mistress type. All leather and kinky boots up to her armpits. And one dirty little secret.”

Jam’s grin told Andy everything she needed to know. “Kandy with a K is one of us?”

“Yeah. She promised to be late tonight so we can talk to Lautrec. Only one thing, though. We—you—have to be careful. Kandy says you’re going to ruin five years of work if you blow her cover. She gets us stock tips from heaven. Kate says she’s one of our highest earners. Probably pays your salary. And she’s already locked up two fraudsters, one rapist, and one bank robber. Funny what people will confess to when a strange woman ties you up and whispers ‘bad boy’ in your ear.”

Andy reached for the grab handle as Jam took the impossibly narrow gap between a garbage truck and a UPS van.

“We’ve got René on you,” Jam said. “And Marc will be her sidekick for this one.”

“Great.” Andy nodded.

“Kate said to make sure nothing happens to you.”

“She said nothing to me.”

“You know she won’t. But it will be my head on the block if you don’t come back in one piece.”

“Isabelle’s dreams only come true in two, three days. Maybe more. So, there’s time. Don’t worry.”

Jam shook her head. “You hope. We haven’t yet determined any pattern for her dreams. So, for heaven’s sake, don’t do anything stupid, like run into a diner.”

Andy gave a mock salute. “Will do.”

“And keep in contact. Don’t switch anything off.” She pointed to the communication device in Andy’s ear.

“I hear you.”

Andy waited for more instructions, but there were none forthcoming. She decided to use the few minutes of alone time with Jam. “When is the election?”

“For your mom’s spot?”

“Yes.”

“In a week.”

“I heard René is running against her. She doesn’t seem the type.”

Jam turned in the driver’s seat, staring at her is if wondering why she’d ask such a question.

Andy wished she would look at the road again.

“Are you asking me if I’m behind it?” Jam’s voice had an edge to it.

Andy pointed at the road. “Cab. Stopping.”

Jam swerved left.

“From what I heard you and René had something going on a year ago,” Andy said.

“Not really. Those were mostly rumors. I’d check my sources if I were you. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

Andy looked for another entry point. “Aren’t you interested in the job? You’re very diplomatic about Kate, but people talk. You think she’s rash, irresponsible. And you didn’t agree with her taking Isabelle. And my sources are good on this one, thank you very much.”

Jam smiled wanly. “As I say, don’t believe everything you hear. Also not the fact that Kate wants to continue in her job. From what I’ve been told she wants to retire. She and Claire have been talking about buying a place in Napa Valley.”

She slammed on the brakes, turned right, and shot down an alleyway. She parked in front of what looked like a hotel.

“Enough sweet talk. Go in, press two in the elevator, and go to the room at the end of the hall. You have an appointment with Mistress Helen, if anyone asks. Go in at exactly six twenty. René and Marc are already inside, disguised as customers. Good luck. I’ll be listening and waiting.”

Andy looked at her for the info she really needed.

“Kate said to go in hard,” Jam confirmed. “Time’s of the essence. Especially in light of Isabelle’s dream.”

“Okay.” Maybe Andy was wrong. Maybe the old woman cared more than she’d let on.

“Keep safe.”

“I’ll do so. Lautrec was ex-military.”

Jam blew out a questioning breath. “Seems he was more a paper pusher than anything else. From what I gathered, he exaggerated his military career on the battlefield to sell himself to Hampton. Still doesn’t make him a pushover though.”

 

* * *

 

Andy walked into the upmarket space, decorated in hues of black and white, punctuated with the odd dash of purple every now and then—a painting, the bartender’s top hat. A silver cage swung from the roof, the woman inside wearing a skimpy leopard print thong, her breasts large and heavy.

The music was soft, electronic, the beat steady and seductive.

It was a decidedly straight male environment, the few suits that made up the early Thursday evening crowd sitting around on sofas, being kept company by sparsely clothed women lounging at their feet.

It seemed the shedding of clothing and other associated services happened in the privacy of rooms not visible from here.

Marc was sitting at the bar, having an animated conversation with the bartender, a statuesque blonde in a blue dress. He was dressed like he belonged in an office, wearing a light blue suit and crisp white shirt.

Andy couldn’t see René anywhere.

A voice crackled in her ear. “Well, well. Good evening, Ms. Bouchard. So nice of you to join us.”

Andy smiled. She’d missed René. And she knew she’d messed up by slipping away in the night like a convict three years ago. She should have done better, especially with the people who cared about her.

“Beware the shark,” René signaled a warning. “Almost had me kicked out until they could find young Ashley here to entertain me.”

“Shark?”

“Yeah. Great white. She hunts to kill.”

Andy looked over her shoulder. A woman in heels and a killer white dress was trying to catch up with her.

“Hi there. Can I help you?” she called as if Andy was lost.

Damn it. She’d almost made it to the elevator without pinging anyone’s radar.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” the woman said, curiosity on her face. In her forties, she was substantially older than the other women in the Crimson Parlor.

Andy pointed to the elevator. “I’m going to the second floor.”

“Ah. You have an appointment?”

“Yes,” she said.

“With?”

“Mistress Helen.”

The curiosity made way for a fake smile, a red fingernail that lazily drifted up her arm. “Well, then. Enjoy.”

Andy faked a smile back. “Thanks. I’m sure I will.”

On the second floor, she stepped into the hallway, the sounds of her footsteps muffled by a thick gray carpet. The black-and-white prints on the wall were of various sex positions, the women in them all younger than what felt appropriate. Only one showed two women in action.

She kept her head down and walked to the end of the hall. She stood in front of the white door and looked at her watch.

Six twenty.

She opened the door.

The man sitting chained on the chair wore a blindfold, a pair of black pants, and not much more. He was in his fifties, with a graying goatee and shaved head. Square face. His arms were ropey, ending in hands that were balled into fists, as if being tied scared him.

His crotch said she was wrong. Maybe excited was a better word.

He perked up as Andy closed the door, his breath quickening.

She said nothing.

Two minutes passed.

Lautrec stirred in his chair. “Mistress Kandy? I did as you commanded. Do you not find it pleasing?”

Lautrec’s voice was surprisingly light and modulated.

Andy had ten minutes before Kandy would walk in, screaming, startled by the intruder who slipped in while she went to collect fresh, hot wax.

She walked over and tightened Lautrec’s restraints. She needed them to be real, not for show. He reared up as she came closer, fighting against the leather straps that kept him tied to the chair. He sat in the middle of a mirrored room adorned with a massive bed and an array of whips and chains against the walls.

“You’re not Kandy,” Lautrec said.

“Bravo.”

Andy picked a riding crop from the bed and tested it in her hand.

Ow.

“Tell me about Arlene Hampton,” she said.

Lautrec stood up, the chair like a tortoise shell on his back. Using his shoulder, he tried to scrape the blindfold from his face, his excitement rapidly turning into panic.

Andy yanked him back down. “I only want information. That’s all, Lautrec. Play along and I won’t hurt you.”

He frowned at her tone. “Who are you? Untie me and we can talk.”

“I won’t be long. I want to know who Arlene Hampton was dating.”

“You’re mad. Why would I tell you anything?” he snarled.

Andy hit him with the riding crop on the top of his legs, alarmingly close to his now wilting hard-on.

“Fuck. You bitch!”

“Now, now. Who was Arlene seeing?”

“I’ll fucking kill you. And sue this place. Everyone here.”

“What makes you think anyone knows I’m here? Mistress Kandy has run into unexpected problems and won’t be here for a while.”

He snarled, yelled for help.

Andy chuckled. “Soundproof rooms. Made for disciplining. Or torture. You’re not very perceptive for a former military man, Lautrec.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tsk-tsk.” Andy looked around her. She inhaled the fresh scent of roses sitting in a vase on a desk in the corner of the room. Kandy must love flowers. “So, let’s recap. You’re all alone. In a soundproof room. With a mad woman as your only company.” She stood behind Lautrec. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Kandy barged in here. She leaned down and whispered into Lautrec’s neck. “Tell me who Arlene was dating. And who knows, maybe nobody has to know you spoke to me.”

His arms fought against the restraints.

“Give me a name.”

He groaned.

“Come now, Phillipe. Don’t let me punish you. Really punish you.”

“Okay. It was a woman. That’s all I know.”

“Name.”

“Don’t know it.”

“Age, race. Anything.”

Lautrec was turning red underneath the blindfold. “I don’t know. White? Arlene didn’t talk about her private life. She had some obsession about anyone knowing anything about her. I only knew that she was gay because a photo popped up on her phone during a meeting. A photo of her and another woman and it was clear they were more than friends, but I couldn’t see her face.”

Andy sat on the bed behind him. Damn thing was rock hard.

“Okay. Now tell me about the money you paid to a restaurant in Little Odessa. The one owned by the Russian mafia.”

He didn’t answer.

“Now, now, Phillipe.”

Andy stood up. She unlocked her phone and took some photos of him, the room. “If nothing else, consider how difficult it would be for your two daughters to digest their dear old dad in this particular setting.” She took another photo, close enough for him to hear the audible snap of the shutter.

“Tell me about the money you paid to have Arlene Hampton killed.”

Lautrec almost choked. “No. No way!” He stood up again, chair tied to his body.

Andy slapped him down, her hand leaving a red mark on his cheek. “The money.”

“It wasn’t to kill Arlene.” He spoke rapidly, his voice becoming increasingly high-pitched. “It was…is…gambling debts. I have gambling debts.”

“So why was the Russian mafia following Arlene?”

“To threaten me. They did the same to my daughters. They thought Arlene and I were sleeping together.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“It’s the truth!”

“Put yourself in my shoes, Lautrec,” Andy said, returning to a casual tone. “It all seems very convenient. Norwegian Prime Minister Siv Sandberg is coming to town along with the Russian president. Sandberg’s got some nasty stuff on him and hires Arlene and Fortress to look after her. Then the Russian mafia starts following Arlene, killing her in her apartment. What’s that? A warning to Sandberg to shut up? You can see why I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“You could have a million reasons to fucking lie to me.”

Andy considered her options, then pulled out her gun. She cocked it and pushed it against Lautrec’s head. Time was running out. For her and Detective Wright. “Why was the Russian mafia following Arlene?”

He inhaled sharply, almost choked. “I told you. My debt. My gambling debt!”

She increased the pressure against his temple. “One last chance.”

“My debt! For fuck’s sake. Please.” He started to cry.

She swore. “Tell me this then, what does Sandberg have on the Russian president?”

“Something about an affair.” He sobbed. “That’s all I know.”

Andy stepped away from Lautrec, evening out her breath. She’d pushed Lautrec to the edge and she didn’t think he had anything else to offer. She put away her gun and unlocked the door, then closed it softly behind her.

“Is our shark still swimming?” she asked René and Marc.

“The water is clear,” Marc said in her ear. “Exit the elevator and keep to your left all the way to the door.”

“Thanks,” she said. “And would you be so kind as to order some Ingrid Bergman roses for Mistress Kandy? Two dozen. We owe her a big thank you.”