“Bad things seem to follow our perp,” he said, grimacing. “Does this beat cop know where the young woman lives?” he asked.
“Yeah. She’s Terry Foster, and her husband in Ken Foster. They live at 2313 Ontario Road in Adams Morgan. Been married for five years, and have a son, Ken Jr. born just under two years ago in September.”
“Thanks, Stan. I’ll follow up on this information immediately.”
Eight
Dan drove up Sixteenth Street, took a Left onto Florida Avenue, then a Right onto Ontario Road. Stopping at the Foster’s residence, he got out, walked up to the door and knocked.
“May I help you,” Terry Foster said, eyeing him with suspicion.
“Mrs. Foster, I’m Dan Hightower, FBI.” His badge came out of his vest pocket, and gave him credence. “May I come in?”
After hesitating a moment, still looking nervous about letting a stranger into her house, she finally said, “Please. Come in.”
“Who is it, honey,” Ken Foster asked from further inside the house.
“It’s a Mr. Hightower from the F.B.I.”
Ken walked into the living room, and motioned him to have a seat. “Please,” Ken said, “be comfortable.”
“Well, folks,” he said, “we have reason to believe your wife, Mrs. Foster, was approached by a person of interest of ours. She was seen with a young lady named Samantha Boyle just before Samantha disappeared.”
He looked at Terry Foster with concern. “I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Foster, but we have reason to believe this person might have been involved in that as well.” A picture came out of a manila envelope, and fell on the coffee table. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”
Terry scratched her head. “No. I don’t remember seeing her. I remember that I left Ken and Junior in the sanctuary with the fellow elders, and I walked outside to wait for him. I guess about twenty minutes later, he came out and we went home.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see her that day? We have her on security cameras and she was seen approaching you. In fact, let me show you a video of that scene.” His mobile smart phone pulled up the video, and in it, Poisonous was seen walking up to her, patting her belly, and saying something unintelligible to her, then walking away.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen this woman.”
Terry’s eyebrows form a ‘V’ as they crimped above her eyes. After some serious thought, she finally said, “No, I don’t remember seeing her.”
“Well, he said, “We’ll being keeping an eye out for her. We suspect that she might be involved in all manner of questionable activity.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Agent Hightower, but if she had anything to do with my baby dying, I hope you catch her.”
Looking at both Terry and Ken, in turn, he said, “Well, thanks for your time. I’ll keep you updated as we find out more.”
* * *
Monday, July 21st 14:05
Poisonous waited at a table overlooking the main dance floor of the Gentleman’s Club. Well appointed chairs sat on top of a deep red carpet. She ordered herself a Jungle Juice cocktail, feeling the mood to drink something very strong. As the liquid travelled down her gullet, it left a warm sensation all up and down her chest. It actually calmed her, making her able to think more clearly. “My, but alcohol has changed quite a bit since ancient days. This is positively invigorating.”
The front door to the club opened, and she recognized the woman whose long, died blond hair flowed all the way down her back. Having met her a few days earlier walking the streets in the section of downtown where most women of easy virtue worked and plied their trade, she had proposed a deal that she might be interested in. The streets at that time of night crawled with the party-going crowd in DC. There were always the drunks sitting in the street, smashed out of their normal wits, and the occasional brawl that broke out, sending the women hiding in an alley, or some other safe nook to avoid getting beat up or worse, shot.
This particular escort had caught her eye. After starting up a conversation with her, she found out her name was Phoebe, though her street name was Candi. Convincing her that she could make an offer of much more money, and no pimps beating you or making you take what jobs you weren’t interested in had at least made the woman curious. Better money and better working conditions were the main items on the agenda.
“I’ll think about this, and get back to you in a couple of days. As promised, two days later Phoebe called Poisonous, and suggested they meet at the Gentleman’s club at the Corner of 5th and K Streets Northwest.
Phoebe walked in in a skimpy outfit, which covered enough to allow her not to appear a prostitute; tartish, perhaps, but a step above cocotte. As she walked in, Poisonous waved her down. Phoebe walked toward her table, and sat down.
“So tell me this grand plan of yours. I hate to sound skeptical, but it sounded a bit too good to be true.”
“I assure you, I meant every word I said. You will be paid at least eight hundred dollars for every gentleman you entertain, whether you have sex or not. I will teach you the art of subtle seduction. Unlike how you ply your trade, you don’t proposition: you seduce. This works well with men you consider handsome.”
“You mean, in essence, that I flirt with men to get them to have sex with me?”
“No, not exactly. You finesse your way into their good graces, and make them want to be with you, especially in an erotic way.”
“But that may
