Buried In Buttercream (24 page)

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Authors: G. A. McKevett

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream
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Savannah wasn't sure how much they were going to get out of this young woman. But she was sure of two things: This professional “companion” was terribly afraid of this barely glorified pimp. And the two of them had something to hide.
 
When Savannah entered the tiny room with its big bed, she had to breathe deeply to avoid an attack of claustrophobia.
The small, single-wide trailer made Dirk's mobile home feel positively palatial by comparison. And the dark red walls and heavy drapes that blotted out all sunlight didn't help.
Like the reception area, it was lit with red lights and dusty chandeliers. Apparently housekeeping wasn't high on Vadim/ Monique's list of priorities. Or his customers' either.
“Do you want to shower first?” the young woman asked, waving a listless hand toward the narrow hall.
“No, darlin',” Savannah said. “We told you we're here just to talk and we are. What's your name?”
“Trixie,” was the unenthusiastic reply.
Savannah gave her a sad smile. “I'd like to call you by your real name.” She held out her hand to her. “Mine's Savannah, and this is Dirk.”
“I'm Charlene,” she said, awkwardly shaking Savannah's hand.
When she turned to Dirk, he said softly, “You can put on some clothes, Charlene, if that'd make you more comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Charlene said as she hurried to the back of the trailer and returned with an old, worn, man's flannel shirt that reminded Savannah of the kind that her grandfather used to wear.
She slipped it on, buttoned up the front, and then sat on the side of the bed. “You wanna have a seat?” she asked, waving toward the other side.
Savannah and Dirk glanced around, but there were no chairs and no place else to sit.
“No, we're fine,” Dirk replied. “This won't take long. I just want to ask you something about a man who visited you here last weekend.”
Charlene shot a quick glance up toward a dusty silk plant hanging in the corner of the room. “Yeah, okay. I don't know how much I can tell you, but ...”
Savannah turned her back to the corner with the plant, reached into her purse and took out her note pad. She scribbled, “Camera?” on the paper, then held it against her chest so that Charlene could read it.
The girl glanced down at the notebook and gave the faintest of nods.
“You just do your best, Charlene,” Dirk said, glancing down at Savannah's message. “That's all we're asking.”
He took the picture from his pocket and held it up for her to see. “Does he look familiar to you?”
“Oh, yes!” she said with far more enthusiasm than Savannah was expecting. “He was here. He came to see me on Friday, and we had such a good time that he came back again the very next day, on Saturday.”
Okay,
Savannah thought
, that's a new one ... a hooker who rats out her customers in a heartbeat.
“All right,” Dirk replied. “Thank you.” He gave Savannah a questioning look.
And she knew just how he felt. How strange, to have an interview go this smoothly. When did an investigator ever find out exactly what they wanted to know within a couple of minutes?
But if everything was going so swimmingly, why did she have this nagging feeling that all wasn't the way it appeared?
“Honey,” Savannah said, “did he treat you right?”
“Oh, yes. He was nice. Very nice.”
“Did you catch his name?”
“Ethan. He said his name is Ethan Aberline or Aber-something. He said, I just can't remember exactly.”
Dirk raised one eyebrow. “How many of your customers tell you their full names, Charlene?”
She shrugged. “Some of them tell me a name, but I doubt it's their real one, you know?”
“Yeah,” Savannah said, “I can imagine. Did he give you a good tip?”
Something flitted across Charlene's face. Just a brief little something that Savannah couldn't categorize on the spot.
“Yes, he did,” she responded, nodding vigorously. “Like I said, he was very nice. Handsome, too.”
“I'll bet you don't get a lot of guys that good-looking in here, huh?” Savannah said.
“Guys are guys,” she replied with a tone of exhausted resignation. “You know, they are what they are.”
“Did he say anything or do anything out of the ordinary?” Dirk asked. “Anything at all.”
She thought it over ... or at least pretended to. Savannah wasn't sure which.
“No,” she said. “He was just a regular, nice guy. Except that he came back the next day and asked to see me again. I don't get that very often. In fact, I think he might've been the first to do that.”
She seemed to realize she was saying too much. She broke eye contact with them and crossed her arms over her flannel men's shirt.
“What time was he here?” Dirk asked.
“I'm not sure, but sometime in the late morning. He bought a two-hour date the second day.”
She looked down, fiddling with the buttons on the front of her shirt, and the look on her face was one that Savannah had seen many times. It was the look of a liar. Someone who wasn't very good at it because they hadn't had a lot of practice.
“Sweetie,” Savannah said, “did anybody tell you to say this to us?”
Charlene looked startled and not a little unsettled by Savannah's question. “No, of course not,” she stammered.
“Did this nice man, Ethan, did he pay you to say this to anybody who might come asking?”
“No. Not at all. Is that all you want to ask me, 'cause if it is, I've got stuff I've gotta be doing,” she said, shooting a quick look at the plant hanging in the corner.
“Yes, I guess so ... for now,” Dirk replied. He turned and walked to the door.
But Savannah hesitated, looking at the young woman on the bed with the lost look in her big eyes. “How old are you, hon?” she asked.
Again, Charlene looked up at the corner. “Nineteen,” she said.
“You don't look nineteen. You look like a kid who needs to go home.”
Tears sprang to Charlene's eyes. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, her fingers clutching handfuls of the soft, plaid shirt.
“You know he loves you,” Savannah said softly.
“Who?”
“The guy whose shirt that is. Is it your dad, your grandpa?”
The tears flowed more freely. “My big brother.”
“Well, he misses you and wants you back.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Give him a call and get out of this hellhole. You can still have a life and you deserve one.”
Charlene looked down, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob.
Unable to resist, Savannah turned and glared up at the camera in the corner, then gave it her seldom-used, but skillfully delivered middle-finger salute.
 
As she and Dirk exited the trailer and made their way across the parched, cracked earth toward the Mustang, she said, “I hate places like that. I hate what they do to kids' families, like mine. And I hate what they do to kids like that one in there.”
He reached over and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I know, babe. Me, too.”
“And the whole legal-schmegal bullshit doesn't change a thing. You can dress a pig up in a Sunday suit and take him to church, but he's still a hog.”
“I agree.”
She looked up at him and saw that he was watching her with a mixture of humor, respect, and affection.
“I've done a bit of self-searching-type investigating and discovered that I feel strongly about this topic.”
He kissed her on her forehead. “Yeah, no kidding.”
Chapter 22
N
o sooner had Savannah and Dirk climbed back into the Mustang, than Savannah's phone rang. It was Tammy's sunshine song.
“Hello, Tamitha,” she said, thinking how different Tammy was from the girl inside that trailer. Given a bit of sunshine and light, Charlene might have been a woman like Tammy instead of a heartbroken child. “What's shakin', sugar?”
“Oh, lots of things,” came the weary but excited reply. “We watched him in the museum. He bought a creepy thing there in the gift shop where they sell all sorts of gross stuff, including antiques.”
“What did he buy?”
“An old traveling undertaker's at-home embalming kit.”
“Oh, goody. I want one.”
“Really?”
“No. What else?”
“That's all he bought, but we kept following him around. He went to a bar called Bloody Mary's and had a—”
“Bloody Mary?”
“Yeah, how'd you guess?”
“I'm not a private detective for nothin'. What else?”
“He had a filet mignon at a local steak house and—”
“Extra rare?”
“Of course. And then he went back to his hotel room. We're down the hall, watching the door.”
Savannah smiled, imagining her brother and Tammy hiding behind some giant palm or whatever. In her fantasy, they were both wearing Groucho noses, glasses, and mustaches.
“Above and beyond the call of duty,” she told her. “Why don't the two of you go get some dinner, too? We're getting ready to leave the brothel now. We'll hook up with you later.”
“Are you sure? We'd be glad to wait for you to get back for us all to eat together.”
“Two's company, Tammy. Four's definitely a crowd. Go eat ... if you can find an organic vegetable in Sin City.”
“Oh, yeah ... that might be a challenge.”
“Talk to you later, puddin'. Thanks for all the good work.”
“Happy to do it. Oh! Wait! I forgot to tell you. After we were all back at the hotel, I hooked up with that concierge ... the one I got along with so well over the phone.”
“Yes? And tell me you didn't really use that pregnant sister cover. It wouldn't work in person since you aren't—”
“Of course not. I told him that Waycross and I are cops.”
“Tammy! You didn't! Impersonating a police officer is illegal!”
“Only if you get caught. Don't worry. He was really nice. Even let us look at some of the hotel security footage from the day of the murder.”
Savannah scowled. “Yes. We confirmed what he told you before about Ethan going to the brothel two days in a row. We verified it with the gal he saw here at Monique's. And by the way, Monique's a big, ugly Ruskie dude.”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry. Is that un-PC of me?”
“No, well, I don't know. But that's a fake alibi. Ethan was walking around the halls of the hotel here at ... let me check my notes ... eight oh four, nine fifteen, ten oh eight, eleven twenty-six, and then at twelve thirty-nine. And it's an hour drive there, right?”
“Yes. An hour and change.”
“Then he wasn't there any time during the morning. He was here in town. Mostly here in the hotel.”
Savannah turned to Dirk, her right eyebrow raised to all-new heights. “You're very sure about this, right, babycakes? Because I have a feeling this information is gonna open a big can of whupass.”
“Yes. I'm sure. Who's ass is gonna get whupped?”
But Savannah had already hung up the phone and was getting out of the car.
“What's up?” Dirk asked, following her.
“My dander.”
“Why?”
“ 'Cause if there's one thing I can't abide, it's bein' lied to. And I'm about to give that lyin' Russian new excretory alternatives.”
He stopped and stood there thinking about it as she stomped on toward the door. Then he ran and caught up to her. “Oh, okay. Gotcha. Need help?”
“No, but you can watch if you wanna.”
She pounded on the door several times before Vadim finally opened it again. He looked annoyed, but not half as angry as she was.
She barged past him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“What the hell!” Vadim shouted at her. “You again?”
“Yep, it's her again. And me, too,” Dirk said, following her inside. “Apparently, she's got a bone to pick with you.”
“What bone? What pick?” Vadim said, bristling.
Dirk opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “Well, I'm not exactly sure, but I'll betcha she's gonna tell you.”
“You're damned right I'm gonna tell you.” Savannah stepped up to him and shook her finger in his face. “You lied to us. And you got that little gal in there to lie to us, too. Ethan Aberson didn't come back here for a second visit the next day. He was somewhere else.”
“No. No. He was here.”
“Don't you go lying to me again, you two-bit pimp. This isn't open for debate. We've got videos of him in Las Vegas at the same time you say he was here. Solid proof. He wasn't here. So why are you covering for him?”
Having caught up to speed, Dirk stepped forward, too, an equally irate look on his face. “Do you know what you're doing, buddy? You're providing an alibi for a guy who's suspected of first-degree murder. You know that? This here's a homicide investigation you're interfering with.”
Vadim's face tightened with fury as he backed away from them and around the end of the counter. “I did nothing. I said nothing to you.”
“The guy in that photo,” Savannah said, “paid you and your girl to say he was here when he wasn't to give him an alibi so he could murder somebody. Now, when we prove that, you're going to be on the next boat back to Russia or wherever the hell you're from. And something tells me you might not get a warm welcome back there.”
“So you'd better start telling the truth,” Dirk said.
“And you”—Vadim reached behind the counter and pulled out a butcher knife that was at least a foot long—“you leave or I cut your hearts out.”
Savannah reached beneath her jacket at the same time as Dirk went for his own shoulder holster. In unison, they pulled their weapons and pointed them at Vadim.
“Two guns beat a knife any day of the week and twice on a Sunday,” Savannah told him. “So you put that cheese slicer on the counter there before we blow your damned lying, pimping head off.”
Vadim was shaking so hard and glaring at them with such pure hatred, that for a moment, Savannah thought he might go for it. She had already calculated how many rounds she could squeeze off before he was able to get around the counter. And she was pretty sure that, between the two of them, they could drop him ... big as he was.
Just for a split second, she felt a sick, familiar feeling deep in the core of her being, raw and potent as the adrenaline surging through her bloodstream.
She had been in a life-and-death situation like this less than one hundred days ago, and every cell in her body remembered it.
But this was different. This time her weapon was in her hand. And she knew how to use it.
“Put down the knife,” Dirk said. “If you don't, we're gonna shoot you. Do you wanna die today, Vadim? Is that what you want?”
“Put it down,” she said. “Lay it on the counter. Don't make things worse than they already are.”
Finally, the fire of rage in his eyes subsided a bit, and a more sane, smoldering anger replaced it. With a deep sigh of resignation, as though he had been holding his breath for a long time, he laid the weapon on the counter.
Quickly, Dirk snatched it up.
But both he and Savannah kept their guns trained on him.
“Okay,” Savannah said. “Now, you tell us the truth. How much did he pay you for this alibi?”
In a calmer, less aggressive tone, Dirk said, “If you tell me right now, I'll walk out of here, and we'll forget everything that just happened. We just want to know what he said to you and how much he paid you. Tell us and we'll leave you alone.”
Vadim thought it over. Finally, he said, “Five hundred dollar.”
“And what exactly did he tell you to say if anyone came asking?” Savannah wanted to know.
“He just said, ‘Say I was here to see girl, that I like her a lot, so I come two days. Friday and Saturday, too.'”
“Okay, now was that so hard?” Dirk lowered his weapon and reholstered it.
But Savannah didn't.
With her Beretta pointed at his head, she said, “One more thing and then we'll go. Take out your cell phone.”
“Why?”
“Vadim, it isn't smart to ask ‘why' when somebody has a gun pointed at the middle of your face. Take it out of your pocket! Slowly. Very slowly.”
Reluctantly, Vadim did as he was told.
“Now, call Charlene ... you call her Trixie ... and hand me the phone. You just dial. Don't you say a word to her. I mean it!”
“Why?”
“Vadim, you just ain't right in the head, boy. I already told you to keep the questions to a minimum. Do it!”
He punched a couple of numbers, then held the phone out to Savannah.
A tentative, meek voice on the other end answered, “Yes?”
“Charlene?” Savannah asked.
“Yes. Savannah?”
“It's me, sweetie. Now listen to me. You throw whatever's yours into a suitcase or whatever you've got and go out to the parking lot. There's a red Mustang sitting there. You get into the backseat and then call me back here on Vadim's phone. Got it?”
“But ... but, Savannah, I can't... .”
“Yes, you can. This may be the only chance you ever get to have a life that's worth living, Charlene. Take it!”
“Okay. I will.”
“Good girl. Hurry up.”
Savannah snapped the phone closed and continued to look down the barrel of her gun at Vadim, who was appearing more despondent by the moment.
“What now?” he said.
“We wait a few minutes,” she replied.
 
Three minutes later, when Vadim's phone rang, Savannah answered it and heard a breathless Charlene on the other end. “Okay. I'm out here. I'm ready to go.”
She sounded so happy that Savannah thought her heart would swell and burst, just hearing it.
“We'll be right out, honey,” she told the excited girl. “You just sit tight.”
When Savannah hung up the phone and shoved it across the counter toward Vadim, he said, “You cannot take my girl. She belongs to me.”
“She ain't yours anymore,” Savannah told him, her own blue eyes as cold as his. “She's a human being, and you're nothing but a no-good, blood-sucking pimp ... a modern-day slave trader. And just for the record, I hate people like you.”
She and Dirk backed out of the room, and she didn't holster her weapon until they were in the Mustang with Charlene and a pillowcase half full of belongings in the rear.
Savannah saw the meager bag and said, “Is that all you've got, darlin'?”
Charlene looked ashamed for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, but at my brother's house in San Francisco, I have a pretty room with a pink bedspread and a view of the bridge.”
“Then let's get you back to your brother's house,” Savannah said. “And with some work on your part, you won't ever have to see this stinkin' place or another one like it again.”

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