Red Light (7 page)

Maybe it had
something to do with the way memories are storied, which is what Dr. Joan Cash
told her about her own critical incident stress. Cash said that Merci's
memories of the murder of her partner and lover, and her subsequent shooting of
the predator Colesceau were "disfunctional" memories. Dr. Cash wanted
to fix them with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), a new
technique with which she had had some success.

But Merci thought of
her memories as fully functional, their function being to torment her with
guilt. Over what she should have done. Could have done. Might have done. She
had analyzed the sequence of those last days a thousand times, stopping the
action for hours to vet every millisecond, every decision, every misjudgment.

Yes, she believed she
had found some things she could have done better....

Then there were the
nightmares, terrifying and shameful, far beyound any words she could use to
describe them for Cash or anybody else. They left her short of breath, stewing
in the gamy scent of her own fear and sweat, trembling in hard, regretful
silence.

She wondered briefly
if Brice's way might be better: convert all to dark comedy, add a giggle, sleep
tight.

No. Not everything in
life was amusing. Unless you were talking to certain psychopaths.

"Got
some interesting men on your wish list," Brice said.

"Shoot."

"What's
it all about?"

"You'll
have to tell me."

"I think it's
Aubrey Whittaker's little black book. She was a prostitute, I know that."

"Can't
confirm or deny that one, Gary. Give me something good.”

"Okay. There's
the owner of Del Viggio Construction—they’re big in north county. There's an
assistant pastor at Newport Maranatha Church. There's the defensive line coach
at a local junior college. There's an Irvine millionaire who owns a bio-tech
pharmaceutical company—they're working on an herbal, low-cost version of Viagra
for women. There's a pro basketball player who's got a second home in Laguna
Beach. Some married, some with families, some with neither."

She
was more than a little surprised. "All that with twenty names. I should
have given you fifty. In fact, I think I might."

"High-line
girl," said Brice. "What amazes me is these guys'll give an outcall
service a real name and a good credit-card number."

She wouldn't comment
on that, although it amazed her, too.

She
took down the names as he matched them to their occupations and marital status.

Then
she gave him twenty more, all of which she'd copied from Aubrey Whittaker's
address book. Some of the names had corresponding credit-card numbers, some
were without. Merci wondered if Aubrey's private clients might be her big boys,
her regulars, the ones who might be lucky and rich enough to get a home-cooked
dinner.

Preposterous. Call
girls just don't cook for clients.

Merci
looked over at Tim, who was using a large orange pipe wrench to clean the
panda's mouth.

"Is that
all?" asked Brice, a touch of mock irritation in his voice.

"Yes."

"I've got
another question for you then."

"Shoot."

"Would you go on
a date with me next Friday night?"

"No. How old are
you?"

"Twenty-six."

"I got you by
ten."

"You're
the most beautiful homicide cop I've ever seen. I like your wiseass
personality, too. Something easy. I'll meet you for a drink, we'll see one of
those action movies, then go drink more and talk about it. When you can't
resist me anymore, you can do whatever you want with me, then discard me."

"Thanks for the
names. I need the others tomorrow."

"How about just
coffee then?"

"How about just
names?"

"I guess you're
tight with the bloodhound man."

"Pretty
tight."

"You'll regret
this," said Brice, in a theatrical tone.

"I'll learn to
live with it."

"You can learn
to live with warts, too."

"No warts. No
date. But thanks for asking anyway. I'm very slightly flattered."

"An age
thing," he said. "Cool."

She hung up and
wondered at men. There was Mike who saw no humor in anything. There was Gary
who saw no seriousness in anything.

And there was Tim,
Jr., asleep on his blanket in the corner with one hand on his orange pipe
wrench and the other on his panda.

M
r.
Moladan will see you now."

Merci
glared at the receptionist on her way past. The woman was blond, young,
unreasonably beautiful. She smelled like free sample day at Macy's. Merci noted
that Paul Zamorra looked at her and got a smile back.

They'd
agreed to lean a little on Moladan even though he wasn't a suspect. Yet. But if
a john had killed Aubrey, it might have been one of Epicure's, not one of her
own. Moladan would have his name. Merci volunteered to do the leaning because
it would come naturally to her: She thought pimps and panderers who beat up
their girls were even more disgusting than the spineless clowns who leased
their bodies.

The
office building was in Dana Point, overlooking the harbor. Epicure Services
was in suite 12, upstairs. Behind the receptionist's desk was a hallway that
led past two small offices. Each office had two women in it, and all four of
them had phones to their ears and pens in their hands.

At
the end of the hall were fake wood double doors meant to look impressive.
Holding one open was a powerful looking, middle-aged man with dark curly hair,
a big mustache and a big smile.

"I am
Goren," he said. "Please come in and be seated."

Zamorra sat and Merci
stood. Merci watched Moladan move behind his desk and sit down with his back to
the gray December sky. He was wearing a tight black polo shirt, jeans and
cowboy boots. He moved lightly for a thick man in boots.

There were framed
travel posters of Italy on the walls. A sign photograph of the Italian soccer
team for 1997. A string of black and white shots of race cars going down a
track. The featured car in each was an Alfa Romeo.

Moladan pushed aside
a computer monitor. "Police usually like coffee," he said.

"I don't,"
said Merci.

Zamorra shook his
head no.

"Then how can I
help you?"

He smiled in a
practiced way, teeth showing behind the mustache, his eyes were hard and alert.
His accent was thick but his diction was good.

"Tell me about
Aubrey Whittaker," said Merci.

"Aubrey, she is
one of my contractors."

He pronounced her
name
Obrey.

"One of your
girls."

"I do not use
that term. No. Women, perhaps. Never girls."

"She's
nineteen."

"Yes, an adult
American woman. Something has happened?"

"The cards your
receptionist gave you said Homicide Detail. What do you think?"

"Then I think
yes."

"You've got a
bright future."

Moladan sighed and
sat back. Merci watched him hard. He crossed his thick arms over his thick
chest. He had a vertical scar on the left of his forehead.

She stared straight
at him and said nothing.

He said, "What
am I to do, read your minds?"

"She was
murdered Tuesday night. Surprised?"

In a first interview
Merci liked to crowd the facts and the questions get the guy answering with his
emotions.

"I am ... I am
absolutely surprised, yes."

Merci nodded and
pulled out her notebook. Zamorra set his recorder on the desk.

"This
helps us keep things straight. You don't mind, do you?"

"Why
... no. Not at all. I will join you."

Moladan produced a
black mini recorder, turned it on and set it on the desk.

"You
make a lot of tapes, Mr. Moladan?"

"When
detectives accuse me of murder, I tape."

"If we were
accusing you of murder you'd be downtown right now. In fact, that's where we're
going if you don't turn that thing off and put it back."

She could see the
anger in his eyes. Without the smile, his face looked worn and hard.

Moladan
clicked off the recorder, then set it back in his desk drawer.

"We know she
worked for you," Merci said. "We know she was visited Tuesday night
by someone she knew and trusted. We know he was a big man, thick and strong. We
know he was a man with some manners and some means—not a transient, not a
burglar, not a psycho. And we know from two of the neighbors that this man
spoke with an Eastern European accent. We put all that together and guess
what—we thought of you."

"I did not see
her Tuesday night. I was at home. In the lounge. Listening to the band."

"What,
you've got your own lounge musicians at home?"

"Where I live, I
mean to say. I live at the Lido Bay Club in Newport Beach."

Moladan was proud of
his address. Merci knew it as a rich man's hangout in Newport. Yachts, booze
and fun. Nixon hid there when the Watergate heat was on. The decades had seen
it go from young and glamorous to aged. Now it had Goren Moladan. It struck
Merci as the perfect place for a guy in his line of work because it was full of
rich old men.

"Selling
girls must pay you pretty good."

"I sell
companionship. Of the highest morals and quality. It is expensive. I make an
honest profit."

"How
expensive?"

"One thousand
for the consultation, introduction and first hour and two hundred per hour
after this. These are minimums. There are travel and overnight premiums. There
are increased premiums for exotic activities or destinations. It is written
into the agreement that no escort is to be touched or spoken to in a suggestive
manner. It is written in the agreement that she is to be treated according to
her wishes at all times. It is understood by my clients that fine dining, fine
wine and liquors, fine automobiles are expected by my escorts. They may accept
or reject any offers whatsoever, from alcohol to body contact beyond
arm-walking."

"Quaint,"
said Merci. "How do you find such gentlemen?"

"They
are screened carefully."

"By
the airheads on the phones out there?"

"The women place
advertising and they interview potential clients and escorts. There is much
preliminary work to be done."

"How
many girls do you have?"

"Many women. All
ages, all cultures, all personalities. But no girls, I'm sorry."

"What
I asked was how many."

"On
call to me at any time, approximately eighty."

Merci thought about
this. Eighty Aubreys out there, plying the night in their big quiet cars.
Tending to the lonely rich of Orange County. Dispatched by one Goren Moladan, Italianate
pimp and entrepreneur

"So you were in
the Lido Bay Club lounge Tuesday night. What hours, exactly?"

"Nine o'clock
until two. The employees and my companions will prove me innocent. I will give
you names and numbers."

"I'll get those
myself. What I need from you are the names and numbers of all your clients who
used Aubrey Whittaker."

"Oh, Sergeant
Rayborn. This I cannot do. The heart of my business is confidentiality. Without
it I am nothing."

He
sat back and raised his hands like a man fresh out of options.

"Without
confidentiality, Sergeant Ray—"

"Even with it
you're still nothing. Nothing but a fake Italian with a lot of rich
johns."

"This is
absolutely not true. I am Serbian, and proud of it. From now on, Sergeant, I
will require my attorney. You have taken this conversation beyond civilized
limits."

"Listen
carefully to me, meatball. We know about you and del Vigio. We know about you
and Assistant Pastor Spartas. We know about you and Collins, the defensive line
coach at the J.C. We know about you and the drug whiz making cheap Viagra tea
for the ladies, you and the slam dunker from Laguna."

"Fucka
you. Fuck you police."

Moladan
was up in an instant.

Zamorra was, too. His
sport coat slid off him and onto the seat of his chair, though Merci never
really saw his hands move.

Moladan glared at
her, then at Zamorra. Something there brought him up short, got him thinking.

"Sit down,
loser," Merci said. "And don't spit on that nice shirt. The little
guy on the horse will have to be dry-cleaned."

Moladan slammed his
body back into the chair. His face was red and his dark eyes had turned
brighter with anger.