Dead or Alive

Rounds said, and Jack laid it out.

“Long shot,” Granger observed.

“Missing plane, ATF involvement, the FBI putting out feelers on the ground in Sweden, and a shady charter company,” Rounds countered. “We’ve seen this before, okay? Hlasek Air’s moving people who either don’t want to fly commercial or they can’t fly commercial. This probably won’t lead us to who we’re looking for, but maybe it’s a thread we can pull. Or a trigger on some miscellaneous mutts.”

Hendley considered this, then looked to Granger, who shrugged and nodded. Hendley said, “Jack?”

“Doesn’t hurt to get out and shake some trees once in a while, boss.”

“True enough. What’re the Caruso boys up to?”

33

HAVING TO deal with an intermediary wasn’t common, but it wasn’t so uncommon that it gave Melinda cause for concern. Usually it meant the customer was married and/or a luminary in a prominent position, which in turn usually translated into more money, which was the case here. The intermediary-a Mediterranean type named Paolo with burn scars on his hands-had given her half of the $3,000 fee up front, along with the address of the corner on which she should be waiting for pickup-again, not her usual modus operandi, but money was money, and this money was far beyond her usual fee.

The most likely danger she faced was that the john was into something kinky she didn’t want to do. Then the problem became how to misdirect him without losing the date. Most men were easy that way, but once in a while you’d come across one with his sights stubbornly set on something perverse. In those cases-it had happened twice to her-discretion, she’d found, was the better part of business. Say thanks but no thanks, and get the hell out of there.

Statistically, there weren’t that many serial killers around, but about half of them killed hookers-all the way back to Jack the Ripper in London’s Whitechapel district. Ladies of the evening, in the elegant phrase of nineteenth-century England, took their johns to secluded places for a “knee trembler,” where a murder was easier than it was in the middle of a busy street, and so she and some of her colleagues had evolved a simple system of mutual security, sharing with one another the details of their dates.

In this case the car was a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. It pulled up to the curb, and Melinda heard the rear door unlock. The windows did not roll down. After a moment’s indecision, she climbed in.

“Why the tinted windows?” she asked the driver, trying to sound casual.

“To protect against the sun,” he replied.

Reasonable enough, Melinda had thought, keeping her hand near her purse, where she had a very old.25-caliber Colt pocket model automatic, nearly weightless at thirteen ounces. She’d hardly ever fired it, but it was fully loaded with seven rounds, with the safety on. Not exactly a.44 Magnum, but not a kiss on the cheek, either.

She checked her watch. They were thirty minutes out of town, she figured. Good news and bad news. A really private place was a good place to kill a whore and dump the body. But she wasn’t going to worry about everything, and her purse was only an inch from her right hand, and Little Mr. Colt was right in there…

The car took a hard left turn into an alley, and then another left into a condominium parking garage. A private garage rather than a communal one, which meant a private entrance to the condo. At least it wasn’t a trailer park. The people who lived in those frightened her, though they did not constitute her normal clientele. Melinda charged a thousand or two a pop, and $4,500 for overnight. The remarkable part was that so many were willing to pay it, which was a fine supplement to her regular job, receptionist at the headquarters of the Las Vegas public school system. The man got out of the car, opened her door, and offered her his hand as she climbed out.

Welcome,” called an adult voice. She walked toward it and saw a tallish man in the living room. He smiled pleasantly enough. She was used to that. “What is your name?” he asked. He had a nice voice. Melodic.

“Melinda,” she replied, walking toward him, putting a little extra sway into her hips.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Melinda?”

“Thank you,” she responded, and a nice crystal glass was provided. Paolo had disappeared-where to, she had no idea-but the atmosphere had disengaged her alarm systems. Whoever this was, he was rich, and she had ample experience with those. She could relax a little now. Melinda was excellent at reading men-what else did she do for a living?-and this guy was not threatening in any way. He just wanted to get his rocks off, and that was her business. She charged so much because she was good at it, and men didn’t mind paying because she was worth the money. It was a perfectly laissez-faire economic system well known in this area, though Melinda had never voted Republican in her life.

“This is very good wine,” she observed after a sip.

“Thank you. One tries to be a good host.” He waved in a courtly gesture to a leather couch, and Melinda took her seat, putting her purse at her left side but leaving it unzipped.

“You prefer to be paid the remainder beforehand?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he handed over. Twenty $100 bills, which took care of business for the evening. Maybe more, if he was particularly pleased with how things turned out.

“May I ask your name?” Melinda asked.

“You will laugh-my name really is John. It does happen, you know.”

“That’s fine, John,” she responded, with a smile that would melt the chrome off the bumper of a 1957 Chevy. She set her wine down. “So…” And business commenced.

Three hours later, Melinda had taken the time to shower and brush out her hair. It was part of her apres-sex routine, to make her client feel as though he had touched her soul. But that was a long reach for most men, and it was too long a reach for John this night. It would also wash away the smell he’d had all over him. The odor was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place it. Something mediciney, she thought, dismissing it. Probably athlete’s foot and something similar. Still and all, he wasn’t a bad-looking man. Italian, maybe. Mediterranean or Middle Eastern for sure. Plenty of those around, and his manners certainly suggested he wasn’t hurting for money.

She finished dressing and walked out of the bathroom, smiling coquettishly.

“John,” she said in her sincerest voice, “that was wonderful. I hope we can do this again sometime.”

“You are very sweet, Melinda,” John answered, and then he kissed her. He was, actually, rather a nice kisser. All the more so that he produced another envelope with a further twenty $100 bills. For that he got a hug.

This could be something, she thought. Maybe, just maybe, if she’d done her job right, she’d be invited back. Rich, exclusive clients were the best kind.

She was adequate?” Tariq said after returning from dropping Melinda off.

“Quite,” the Emir said, reclining on the sofa. More than adequate, in fact, he thought. “A vast improvement over the first.”

“My apologies for that mistake.”

“No apology necessary, my friend. Ours is a unique situation. You were being cautious-as I expect you to be.” The other woman-Trixie-had been ill-mannered and too practiced in bed, but those were traits the Emir could forgive. Had she not asked so many questions, not been so curious, she would have been safely returned to her street corner to continue her pathetic life-her only punishment not being asked for a return engagement. Unfortunate but necessary, the Emir thought. And a necessary lesson. Bringing Trixie directly to the house had been a mistake, one that he’d had Tariq correct by leasing the condominium; it would serve as a buffer, should they need to dispose of another harlot.