The rope secured my wrists behind my back and snaked a figure eight pattern through my arms, up to my elbows. Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn’t have been able to get free. I could flex and wiggle my fingers to keep my circulation going, but didn’t have a range of movement much beyond that.
My legs were similarly secured, the braided nylon line crisscrossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my skin so tight I wished I’d worn pantyhose. And I hate pantyhose.
I was lying on my side, the concrete floor cool against my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that came through a crack at the bottom of the far wall. All I had on was an oversized t-shirt, and my panties. A hard rubber ball had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to dislodge it—a strap around my head held it in place. I probed the curved surface and winced when my tongue met with little indentations.
My sense of time was sketchy, but I estimated I’d been awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few had been spent struggling against the ropes, trying to scream for help through the gag. The bindings were escape-proof, and my ankle rope secured me to a large concrete block, which I felt with my bare feet. It was impossible for me to roll away. The ball gag didn’t allow for more than a low moan, and after a minute or two I began to choke on my own saliva, my jaw wedged open too wide for me to swallow. I had to adjust my head so the spit ran out the corner of my mouth.
Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine— perhaps an air conditioner or dehumidifier—hummed tunelessly in the background. I smelled bleach, a bad sign, and under the bleach, traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat. A worse sign.
Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit on the head? A drug? I wasn’t sure. I had no recollection of anything leading up to this.
But between the smells and my past, I knew whoever abducted me was planning on killing me. I used to be a cop. Now I was in the private sector.
And this was definitely not the way I wanted to end my new career.
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 15
I didn’t become a cop to do things like this.
The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said
The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.
“Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into the microphone, which was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top.
I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. Hopefully not a straight razor or an Uzi. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.
“BJ,” I said to Harry.
“He looks like a member of the PTA.”
“You said the weird-looking guys are always the perverts.”
I actually didn’t know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice training manual didn’t explain that particular kink. I wasn’t about to ask Harry, because he’d make fun of me. It was hard enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department. Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me an easy target for potshots.
Not that I would be young for much longer. Today officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting drunk. My boyfriend, Alan, was out of town on a business trip, and so far he’d neglected to get me anything. Big mistake. True, I didn’t want any reminders of my rapidly retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And forgetting your girlfriend’s birthday said a lot about your future intent.
Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was
“Fine,” I said. “Ten-spot?”
Bald Guy honked again. I pulled up the elastic top of one of my black fishnet stockings, pulled down the hem of my hot pink spandex micro-mini skirt, and walked over to the car on painfully high, strappy heels, trying to look sexy when I felt completely ridiculous. His window opened, and I stuck my head inside. The air conditioning bathed my face, cooling the sweat on my brow and upper lip.
“How are you tonight, sugar?” I asked, smacking my gum.
Bald Guy appeared nervous, jittery. Most of them did. Maybe because soliciting sex was embarrassing. Or maybe because they were worried that the hooker they propositioned was actually an undercover cop.
Imagine that.
“How much?” he asked without looking at me.
“How much what?” I asked.
“How much money?”
In order to make a clean arrest, and avoid the dreaded entrapment defense, the suspect had to be the one to bring up the subject of money. This guy cut right to the heart of the matter. Now he needed to mention what he wanted in exchange.
“Depends,” I said, playing coy. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Something special. Can you quote me your, um, rates?”
“Sure. Head is ten. Straight is fifteen. Half-and-half is twenty. Round the world is thirty. Anything to do with feet is fifty.”
I hoped Bald Guy didn’t hear that, even though it was so loud my eyes bugged out.
“I’ve got kind of a strange request,” Bald Guy said.
I leaned in further. The air conditioning was wonderfully frigid, and the interior smelled like lemon air freshener. After four hours on the street, this was a little slice of heaven.
“Kinky is extra. Tell me what you need, big boy.”
“Actually, I’ll pay you fifty dollars if you just hold me for ten minutes.”
I blinked. “Hold you?”
He nodded, his face puppy dog sad.
