Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

I took up my listening post again. “Monica, what is Angel’s archive?”

I had to wait as she took a long pull from the bottle and swallowed. “Her dirty movies.”

“Mov-ies,like more than one?”

“Like hundreds of them. She has a whole catalogue with an index to keep them straight. There are politicians and lawyers and cops and sports stars and entertainers and CEOs. She has something for everything she needs.”

I glanced again at Tristan. His eyes were wide. Each thing this woman said was more hair-raising than the last, although it would be hard to top the brick. “Where does she get these movies?”

“We make them for her. Everyone who goes to work for her gets a little digital camera and a laptop and a lesson on how to set up so you’re sure to get the trick’s face. If you screw it up, you just have to do it again, and you have to keep doing it until you get it right.”

“It’s all done in secret?”

“What do you think?”

“Do you record every date?”

“We record the first date with every trick.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Send them to Angel. That’s what the PCs are for.” And that was what the catalogue numbers were for in the lower right-hand corner of the video. I sat back to let it all settle in. It was Angel’s archive, not Monica’s, and it was a vast and powerful thing.

Tristan leaned over and dropped a few more cubes into his glass. “You were right about the senator,” he said.

“And so many others. It’s a blackmail factory. That’s her secret weapon. It’s not one guy; it’s all guys. Everyone in her archive is vulnerable to her. No wonder she’s so damn confident.” I looked at Monica. “But you were the one extorting Arthur Margolies, right?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Trying to.”

“Who is he to you?”

“He’s one of my clients, a gambler in Chicago. I should have just asked him for the money. He would have given it to me.”

“Did you swap dates with me in Chicago because you knew he was after you?”

“No. I didn’t know about that. I knew your date. Curt the Chiropractor, we call him. He pays off like a slot machine. The more you beat him, the more he pays, and I really need money right now.”

“Why do you need money?”

“Are you a moron or what? She’s afraid of what I know, and she wants to kill me, and I’m trying to leave the country.”

“Why now?”

“Uh, because I don’t want to die?”

“You said it was last summer when she showed you the brick. Why is she suddenly concerned that you’ll talk now?”

She drank down the last of her beer and fixed me in a withering gaze. “Because you’ve been sniffing around Robin’s murder. She told me that you told her that I told you about Robin.”

Tristan laughed. “What did you just say?”

Monica was focused on me. “Did you tell her that I told you she killed Robin?”

I reached out to put my glass on the coffee table, almost missed, then set it there solidly. This was starting to make sense in a twisted, Angel sort of way.

“So, it’s true.” Monica crossed her arms to match her crossed legs. “You did tell her. I can’t believe it. I asked you point blank on the phone, and you lied to me.”

“I did not lie to you. I had no idea what you were asking me. We’ve been looking into the Omaha murder because we knew Angel had a motive to kill Robin, and the investigation they did stinks. Now you’re telling me why. You’re saying someone in Omaha helped Angel stay out of it.”

“That’s true. Someone with a lot of juice.”

“Well, think about it. Whoever it was must have tipped her off about recent inquiries. I didn’t tell Angel anything about you. How could I? I didn’t know you knew all this.”

“Why have you been looking for me?”

“I wanted to find her Web guy, and I thought, since you were working with him on these blackmail schemes, you could lead me to him.”

“What schemes? Just the one with Arthur, and Sluggo and me, we weren’t exactly working together. Please…” She dismissed the idea as too distasteful to ponder.

“Then you do know Stewart Belkamp.”

“Sure. He came out to the cabin once. Thank God I didn’t have to fuck him. That’s the only good thing about this whole mess.”

“Why would you have to?”

“I needed a copy of my Artie video, and he didn’t want to give it to me. I had to promise him a freebie if it worked out and I got some money for it.”

Poor Stewart. He’d been left at the altar not once but twice. “I thought his identity was a big secret.”

“It is. I only knew because we had our thing. Angel let down her guard a little with me. I wish to hell she hadn’t. I am going to be so murdered.”

“Not if you go to the police.”

“Why would I do that? As long as she has her dirty movies, there’s no one who can touch her.”

I climbed off the couch to walk around. The couch had not made a good bed. It had been too soft to sleep on, and my back was sore. I ended up by the window. The sky was still overcast, looking a lot more like winter’s approach than it had the past few days. “Monica, what do these archives look like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are they electronic files? Are they on tape? Are they CD-Roms?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Stewart.”

“I plan to.” I turned to Tristan. “I need a gun.”

“Did you pass your test?”

“I failed it.”

“Then the answer is absolutely not.”

“Tristan-”

He moved instinctively to the.44 on his mantel, as if to protect it from me. Or me from it. “Are you planning on shooting Sluggo?”

“Of course not. But I want a way to threaten him.”

“Never take a gun where you don’t intend to use it. I won’t give you one. I’m sorry. Besides, what happens to me if you shoot someone with my gun? I’ll be in deep yogurt, and you’ll be in jail. If you want me to come with you, I’ll bring it. But I’m not giving you one.”

“You can’t come. You have to stay here with Monica.”

“While you do what?”

“Get the archive. The second I have it, I want her sitting in the police station telling her story. I don’t want Angel getting out of this.” I looked at Monica and thought about the two “amateurs with guns,” as Bo had called them. I was pretty sure Angel had sent them, which meant Monica needed protection. “In fact, I’m sending someone else over to stay here with you.” I went to the table, where Tristan’s note from that morning still sat. I used the pen he’d used, wrote out “Djuro Bulatovic,” and gave it to him. “This man will come and stay with you. Call him Bo.”

“How will I know it’s him?”

Monica chuckled. “Do what we do. Give him a code word.”

Tristan looked at me, and I shrugged at him. “Might as well go with what works.”

A mischievous spark showed in his eyes. “I know exactly what to use.”

I WAS ON FOOT, HEADED THROUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD and back to my car, when my cell phone rang. I was expecting Felix, hoping for Tristan, and would have taken almost anyone except the person whose name showed up on caller ID.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Well, doll, what did you think of the show?”

“I think you’re sick and in need of professional help. But mostly, I think you need to go to jail.”

“Your little brother is so the stud. Girl, he wore me out. We did it standing up, sitting down, in the shower, on the carpet, on the tile. We even did it in the bathroom sink.”

“I already know everything that happened. Don’t waste your time embellishing.” Still, having seen the one image of the two of them, it was hard not to conjure the others she described.