Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (2 page)

So he was very aware of what she did and why she had to go to confession at least once a week. “Go, my child. Be well.”

As he closed the panel between them, panic nailed her in the chest. In these quiet moments when she laid out her sins, the degrading place where she'd ended up was exposed, the words she spoke shining a brilliant spotlight on the horrible way she spent her nights.

The ugly images always took a while to fade. But the choking feeling that came from knowing where she was headed next was just going to get worse.

Gathering her rosary together, she put the beads and links in her coat pocket and picked her purse up off the floor. Footsteps right outside the confessional stopped her from leaving.

She had reasons for keeping a low profile, some of which having nothing to do with her “job.”

When the sound of heavy heels dimmed, she pulled open the red velvet curtain and stepped out.

Caldwell's St. Patrick's Cathedral was maybe half the size of the one down in Manhattan, but it was big enough to inspire awe in even the casually faithful. With gothic arches like the wings of angels and a lofty ceiling that seemed only inches away from Heaven, she felt both unworthy and grateful to be under its roof.

And she loved the smell inside. Beeswax and lemon and incense.

Lovely.

Walking down by the chapels of the saints, she weaved in and out of the scaffolding that had been erected so that the clerestory's mosaics could be cleaned. As always, the racks of flickering votive candles and the dim spotlights on the still statues calmed her, reminding her that there was an eternity of peace waiting at the far end of life.

Assuming you were allowed past the pearly gates.

The cathedral's side doors were closed after six p.m., and as usual, she had to go out the main entrance—which seemed like a waste of the thing's effort. The carved panels were much better suited to welcoming the hundreds who came for services each Sunday...or the guests of important marriage ceremonies... or the virtuous faithful.

No, she was more of a side-door kind of person.

At least, she was now.

Just as she leaned all her weight on the thick wood, she heard her name and looked over her shoulder.

No one was there, as far as she could see. The cathedral was empty even of people praying in the pews.

“Hello?” she called out, voice echoing. “Father?” When there was no reply, a chill licked up her spine.

On a quick surge, she heaved herself against the left side of the door and burst out into the cold April night. Holding the lapels of her wool coat together, she moved fast, her flats making a
clip, clip, clip
sound down the stone steps and over the sidewalk as she hustled to her car.

The first thing she did as she got in was lock all the doors.

As she panted, she looked around. Shadows curled on the ground beneath leafless trees, and the moon was revealed as thin clouds drifted. People moved around in the windows of the houses across from the church. A station wagon went by slowly.

There was no stalker, no man in a black ski mask, no attacker lurking.

Nothing.

Reining in her tailspin, she coaxed her Toyota into starting and gripped the steering wheel hard.

After checking her mirrors, she eased out into the street and headed deeper into downtown. As she went along, lights from streetlamps and other cars flared in her face and flooded the inside of the Camry, illuminating the black duffel bag on the passenger seat. Her god-awful uniform was in there, and as soon as she got out of this nightmare, she was burning it along with what she'd had to put on her body every night for the last year.

The Iron Mask was the second place she'd “worked.” The first had blown up about four months ago. Literally.

She could not believe she was still in the business. Every time she packed that duffel, she felt as if she were getting sucked back into a bad dream, and she wasn't sure whether the confessions at St.

Patrick's were making things better or worse.

Sometimes she felt like all they did was stir up crap that was better left buried, but the need for forgiveness was too strong to fight.

As she made a turn onto Trade Street, she started past the concentration of clubs, bars, and tattoo parlors that made up the Caldie Strip. The Iron Mask was toward the far end, and like the others, it was hopping every night with its perpetual wait line of wannabe zombies. Ducking into an alley, she bumped over the potholes by all the Dumpsters, and came out into the parking lot.

The Camry fit nicely in a spot along the brick wall that was marked STAFF ONLY.

Trez Latimer, the owner of the club, insisted that all the women who worked for him use the designated spaces that were closest to the back door. He was as good as the Reverend had been about taking care of his employees, and they all appreciated it. Caldwell had a seedy side, and the Iron Mask was right in the thick of it.

Marie-Terese got out with her duffel and looked up. The bright lights of the city dulled the few stars that twinkled around the patchy clouds, and the heavens seemed even farther away than they were.

Closing her eyes, she took long, deep breaths and drew the collar of her coat in tight. When she went into the club, she would be in the body and mind of someone else. Someone she didn't know and wouldn't care to remember in the future. Someone who disgusted her.

Someone she despised.

Last breath.

Just before she cracked her lids, that panic flared again, sweat breaking out under her clothes and over her brow in spite of the cold.

As her heart beat like she was running from a mugger, she wondered how many more nights of this she had left in her. The anxiety seemed to be getting worse with every week, an avalanche picking up speed, sweeping over her, covering her in icy weight.

Except she couldn't stop. She was still paying off debts...some financial, some that felt existential. Until she was back where she started, she needed to stay where she didn't want to be.

And besides, she told herself that she didn't want to
not go
through this shocking anxiety. It meant she hadn't surrendered to the circumstances completely and that at least some part of her true self still survived.

Not for much longer,
a small voice pointed out.

The back door to the club swung open and an accented voice said her name in the most beautiful way. “You okay, Marie-Terese?”

She flipped open her eyes, put her mask on, and strode with calm purpose over to her boss. Trez had no doubt seen her on one of the security cameras; God knew they were everywhere.

“I'm fine, Trez, thanks.”

He held the door open for her, and as she walked by him, his dark eyes scanned her. With coffee-colored skin and a face that seemed Ethiopian in its smooth bones and perfectly balanced lips, Trez Latimer was a looker—although his manners were the most attractive thing about him, as far as she was concerned. The guy had gallantry down to a science.

Although you didn't want to cross him.

“You do that every night,” he said as he shut the door behind them and cranked the bar bolt in place. “You stand by your car and look at the sky. Every night.”

“Do I?”

“Anybody bothering you?”

“No, but if someone was, I would tell you.”

“Any
thing
bothering you?”

“Nope. I'm good.”

Trez didn't look convinced as he escorted her down to the ladies'

locker room and left her at the door. “Remember, I'm available twenty-four/seven, and you can talk to me anytime.”

“I know. And thank you.”

He put his hand to his heart and gave her a little bow. “My pleasure.

You take care of yourself.”

The locker room was walled with long metal compartments and broken up by benches that were screwed down into the floor. Against the far wall, the lighted showgirl mirror had a six-foot-long counter that was littered with makeup, and there were hairpieces and skimpy clothes and stilettos everywhere. The air smelled like girl sweat and shampoo.

As usual, she had the place to herself. She was always the first to come in and the first to leave, and now that she was in work mode, there were no hesitations, no hiccups in the routine.

Coat went into her locker. Street shoes were kicked off. Scrunchie was pulled free of her ponytail. Duffel bag was yanked open.

Her blue jeans and her white turtleneck and her navy blue fleece were traded for a set of clothes she wouldn't be caught dead wearing on Halloween: microscopic Lycra skirt, halter top that came down to the bottom of her ribs, thigh-highs with lace tops, and pimpish pumps that pinched her toes.

Everything was black. Black was the Iron Mask's signature color, and it had been the other club's as well.

She never wore black when she was away from work. About a month into this nightmare, she'd thrown away every thread of clothing she had with any black in it—to the point where she'd had to go out and buy something to wear to the last funeral she'd gone to.

Over at the lighted mirror, she hit her five tons of brunette hair with some spray and then weeded through the palettes of eye shadows and blushers, picking out dark, sparkly colors that were about as girl-next-door as a
Penthouse
centerfold. Moving quickly, she went Ozzy Osbourne on the eyeliner and glued on some fake eyelashes.

The last thing she did was go to her bag and take out a tube of lipstick. She never shared lipsticks with the other girls. Everyone was properly screened each month, but she wasn't taking chances: She could control what she did and how scrupulous she was when it came to safety. The other girls might have different standards.

The red gloss tasted like plastic strawberry, but the lipstick was critical. No kissing. Ever. And most of the men knew that, but with a coating of the grease, she cut short any debate: None of them wanted their wives or girlfriends to know what they were doing on “guys'

night out.”

Refusing to look at her reflection, Marie-Terese turned away from the mirror and headed out to face the noise and the people and the business. As she went down the long, dim hall to the club proper, the bass of the music grew louder and so did the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

Maybe it was one and the same.

At the end of the corridor, the club sprawled out before her, its deep purple walls and black floor and bloodred ceiling lit so sparsely it was like walking into a cave. The vibe was all about kinked-out sex, with women dancing in wrought-iron cages and bodies moving in pairs or threesomes and trippy, erotic music filling the thick air.

After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she sifted through the men, applying a data screen she wished she'd never acquired.

You couldn't tell whether they were prospects by the clothes they wore or who they were with or whether they had a wedding ring on. It wasn't even a case of where they looked at you, because all men did the breast-to-hip sweep. The difference with the prospects was that they stared at you with something more than greed: As they ran their eyes over your body, the deed had already been done as far as they were concerned.

It didn't bother her, though. There was nothing that any man could do to her that was worse than what had already happened.

And there were two things she knew for sure: Three a.m. was going to come eventually. And like the end of her shift, this phase of her life wasn't going to last forever.

In her saner, less depressive moments, she told herself that this rough patch was something she was going to get through and come out of, kind of like her life had the flu: Even though it was hard to have faith in the future, she had to believe that one day she would wake up, turn her face to the sun, and revel in the fact that the sickness was gone and wellness had returned.

Although that was assuming it was just the flu. If what she was putting herself through was more like a cancer...maybe a part of her would always be gone, lost to the disease forever.

Marie-Terese shut off her brain and walked forward, into the crowd.

Nobody ever said life was fun or easy or even fair, and sometimes you did things to survive that would seem utterly and completely incomprehensible to the home-and-hearth part of your brain.

But there were no shortcuts in life and you had to pay for your mistakes.

Always.

Marcus Reinhardt Jewelers, est. 1893, had been housed in the same gracious brick building in downtown Caldwell since the mortar in its deep red walls had been set. The firm had changed hands in the Depression, but the ethos of the business had remained the same and prevailed into the Internet era: high-end, important jewels offered at competitive prices and paired with incomparable personal service.

“The ice wine is chilling in the private room, sir.”

“Excellent. We're almost ready.” James Richard Jameson, great-grandson of the man who had bought the store from Mr. Reinhardt, straightened his tie in one of the mirrored displays.

Satisfied with how he looked, he turned to inspect the three staff members who he'd chosen to stay after hours. They all had on black suits, with William and Terrence sporting gold-and-black club ties marked with the store's logo and Janice wearing a gold-and-onyx necklace from the 1950s. Perfect. His people were as elegant and discreet as everything in the showroom, and each was capable of conversing in English and French.

For what Reinhardt had to offer, customers were willing to travel up from Manhattan or down from Montreal, and north or south, it was always worth the trip. All around the showroom, sparkling flashes twinkled at the eye, a galaxy come home to roost, and the angles of the direct lighting and the arrangement of the glass cases were calibrated to decimate the distinction between want and need.

Just before the grandfather clock by the door chimed the tenth hour, James flashed over to a pocket door, whipped out an Oreck, and ran the vacuum across the footprints on the antique Oriental rug. On the return to the broom closet, he backed his way over his own path so there was nothing to mar the nap.