6. CHASING LEADS
As it happened, Grimm might have warned Isha about our upcoming visit because when Holland and I showed up at the Blooming Orchid the next day, ten minutes after noon, the madam opened the door to greet us.
“Investigators.” Isha’s kohl-lined eyes softened with her smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”
My concern about this call was not entirely selfless. My relationship with the whore madam had been tenuous after she gave Donovan his Hex mark without so much as a whisper of warning to me. Since then, we’d fought more than once, and she offered apologies I had refused. They were more excuses than anything, pinning blame on me for misunderstanding the difference between business and pleasure. I understood it perfectly well.
Needless to say, Isha Kapoor wasn’t the only one who could come out of a police interrogation covered in dirt. She knew everything about me, including that I’d abducted one of her regulars two weeks ago and never brought him back.
“We’re following up on a possible missing person that may have been seen near your establishment.” Holland flashed her badge. “I understand he was a customer here.”
Isha remained in the entry, holding the door against her hip. Her long black hair hung past her shoulders and framed her persistently pleasant expression. “A tattoo enthusiast?” she asked. “I know several of those.” Her gaze swept over me. It wasn’t as contemptuous as it could have been, which gave me hope.
I’d kept mum about my familiarity with the Blooming Orchid. It was hardly the only tattoo parlor in town, so I could have gone elsewhere to get my work done, but I was surprised Holland hadn’t asked if I frequented this place. Perhaps she’d gotten used to seeing me in long sleeves and suit jackets that obscured a decade’s worth of ink.
Standing on the stoop, Holland crossed her arms. “The other kind of customer, Miss Kapoor.”
The madam hummed acknowledgment. “That side of my business is based on discretion.” Her words dripped with honey. “I can’t be expected to betray my clients’ confidence. Even to the police.”
Holland nudged the corner of her aviator sunglasses. Judging by the creases in her brow, the tinted lenses weren’t enough to cut the harsh, midday light. “A man’s life may be in danger,” she explained. “Your cooperation could be critical to the success of our investigation. ”
Isha looked at me and received a blank stare and silence in return.
“Very well.” She stepped aside and swung the door inward, then extended her arm toward the dark interior of the tattoo parlor.
Holland didn’t wait for a spoken invitation before striding confidently across the threshold.
I lagged, dodging Isha’s squint as she pushed the door shut behind us.
The investigator advanced into the room, perusing padded chairs with accompanying tray tables and mirrored-backed counters arranged with pots of ink and artist portfolios. Tufted velvet furniture filled the waiting area, lit by crystal chandeliers that warred against the black painted walls. The moody atmosphere allowed Holland to remove her shades and hook them over the neckline of her blouse.
A cup of coffee steamed on a nearby tray. The smell mingled with the peppery aromas of incense wafting from upstairs.
Isha retrieved the drink and held it in both hands. “Who exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
Holland pulled a steno pad and pen out of her jacket pocket. A little premature, by my estimation, but I couldn’t fault her for trying.
“Frederick Sumner,” she replied, supplying the name that I’d replaced with the moniker Lover Boy. “He’s an anchor for the local news.”
Memories trickled in of the easiest kidnapping of my life. Frederick Sumner bought every bit of the male prostitute act I put on and had been ready to follow me to hell itself for the sake of a good fuck. I’d left him cuffed and gagged in a storage unit, then let Donovan take it from there, thinking the TV personality would be well on his way in a week or so. The next time I saw him, Lover Boy was a corpse going cold on the floor of a grimy downtown warehouse.
I hugged my arms around my chest, warring with the suit coat so tight it felt more like a straitjacket.
Taking a sip of coffee, Isha nodded toward me. “If I may ask, what is your handsome friend’s role in all this?”
Both women turned my way. It might have been a bit much for Isha to pretend she didn’t know me given my recent media splash. But her feigned ignorance let me breathe a little easier.
“He’s been very quiet.” Isha’s espresso brown eyes glittered with mirth. “And you seem like a capable woman. If you wanted to keep someone around for protection, surely you could find a more imposing figure.”
My mouth pinched a tart smile. At 5’9” and just shy of 150 pounds, I was the smallest member of the Bloody Hex—at least I had been before Ripley rejoined. Even Donovan was taller than me. But size wasn’t really an issue when you could snap people in half with your brain.
Holland cleared her throat. “Mister Farrow has been consulting with the Investigative Department—”
“On what?” Suspicion tweaked Isha’s features.
Did she think I’d led them here? If Grimm warned her that we were coming, did he not tell her I wasn’t to blame?
“He’s here to observe,” Holland answered, defensive on my behalf, or maybe reluctant to mention the suspected involvement of the Bloody Hex.
“We thought Mister Sumner might have a usual consort here?” Holland continued. “Someone who may be in touch with him personally and able to reach out or provide information on his whereabouts?” The investigator’s effort to redirect the conversation was obvious, but Isha appeared to accept it.
“My employees are bound by the same privacy standards as I am,” she said. “I’m afraid they won’t be of much help to you, either.”
Holland put the notepad away, fighting a scowl at having been so thoroughly rebuffed. “Do you mind if we look around?” she asked. “No need for you to tell us things we can discover for ourselves. Perhaps you have security footage we could review? We could take it back to the Capitol building so as not to inconvenience you further.”
She checked the upper corners of the room, searching for cameras she wouldn’t find. The Blooming Orchid was an old-fashioned establishment, built on discretion, yes, and with a low-tech way of tracking customers’ comings and goings. Anyone requesting services was expected to sign in using the guestbook under the counter by the stairs. I was well-schooled in that practice. So well that I had penned my name the night of Lover Boy’s disappearance and inadvertently placed myself on a potential witness list.
Isha remained steadfast and sedate as she told Holland, “I wish you luck in finding the information you need. Elsewhere. ”
It was a polite “fuck off,” followed by a tip of her chin toward the exit.
Holland set her shoulders. “You should know, I am able to subpoena your testimony if that becomes necessary.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t become necessary.” The madam smiled, her white teeth framed by full, burgundy lips.
When the investigator refused the invitation to leave, Isha dismissed herself instead. She took her coffee mug and retreated to the stairs without another glance at me. In her absence, the quiet in the room became oppressive. Holland stood across from me, working her jaw.
The idea of the guestbook lingered in my mind. I needed to get my hands on it before the stubborn investigator came back here with a search warrant and turned the place inside out. How I could grab it without Holland’s notice remained a question until a flash of light shot through the windows behind me.
Holland and I turned simultaneously toward the source. Outside, sun beamed off the windshield of a second patrol car rolling to the curb. The sedan’s doors swung open, and Felix and Tobin stepped out.
Holland sighed loudly. “No need for them to be here. It’s a dead end for now. Come on—” she slid her sunglasses onto her nose—“let’s break the news.”
“Go ahead,” I replied. “I gotta take a leak. You think this place has a public bathroom?”
She shrugged before exiting to meet the other investigators on the sidewalk.
I barely waited for the door to close behind her before I darted to the back of the room. The long, low counter supported an antique cash register with modern credit card equipment, a rotary dial phone, and a tablet for internet access. The solid wood front faced the service side of the room while the back was comprised of shelves and a few drawers that stored office supplies like printer paper, pens, a phone book, and more.
Ducking down so I wouldn’t be seen by the trio outside, I searched for the leatherbound guestbook. It wasn’t in plain sight, which left my focus drifting until I noticed the topmost drawer was outfitted with a lock.
I crept over to it. Pressing my thumb beside the keyhole helped guide my thoughts to the mechanism inside. Within seconds, the inner tumblers turned. Not a great accomplishment—I could have picked it with a paperclip almost as fast—but it was satisfying, nonetheless.
Footsteps thumped on the upper level. Someone strolled the hallway overhead. I paused with my hand on the drawer pull and my ears tuned to the movement to ensure the unseen someone wasn’t headed my way. A distant door opened and shut, then quiet fell again. I expelled a held breath and yanked the counter drawer open. A short, wide book trimmed in black and gold rested atop a pile of miscellany.
I grabbed it and set it on the floor before my bent knees. After a moment’s deliberation, I opened it and counted back to the date I needed. Skimming down the rows of signatures yielded the name I searched for.
Frederick Sumner had decent handwriting, legible enough I easily picked him from the list. Around it, a dozen other people had checked in, including me. The sloppy scrawl of F. Farrow stood out in bold, black ink. Grabbing the top corner of the page, I tore it from the book’s binding as the front door swung open and shut.
“Son of a bitch,” I hissed.
The book snapped closed, then coasted on a whim to land inside the drawer I mentally slid shut. The torn page remained in my hand, and I wadded and stuffed it into my suit coat pocket before standing to face the intruder on the other side of the counter.
Felix’s head cocked in suspicion as he stared at me. His golden eyes swept up and down, but he was too late to catch me in the act.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking for evidence.”
He frowned. “Whatever you found would be inadmissible in court. Illegally obtained evidence—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I waved him off and moved quickly around the counter while his voice chased me.
“We don’t do that. It’s dirty cop stuff.”
A backward glance found him genuinely distraught, as though he’d expected better. I scoffed to myself.
Fighting dirty and fighting to win often looked the same. You would think the investigators would be tired enough of being on the losing side of the war against the Hex that they’d be willing to bend the rules. But Felix could keep his moral superiority because there was no “illegally obtained evidence” to be had. The missing page from Isha’s guestbook would be reduced to a pile of ash as soon as I had a moment’s peace .
“Come on,” I called to him on my way to the door. “Nothing else to see.”
Nothing to see, perhaps, but we both stopped in our tracks when we heard a chilling sound from above: a scream.
Bolting past the investigator, I raced up the stairs. The cry I’d heard was not the kind spurred by the throes of passion. It was a sound born of fear. Or pain.
Felix began his ascent as I arrived on the upper level. Doors lined one wall, each corresponding to a separate bedroom. It wasn’t unheard of for the girls to host clients overnight or take callers this early in the day, but it was unusual. Pleasure was most commonly bought and sold after business hours.
I’d been too far away to accurately guess the location of the sound, but some of the sleuthing was done for me as doors opened and women poked their heads out. I looked to the end of the hall and the door of Isha’s suite. I was ready to fling it wide at range when it swung in and Isha emerged, looking as alarmed as the rest of them. Only one door remained shut, and it was familiar to me. BDSM Liv’s bondage dungeon was closed up tight.
Felix crested the steps, nearly crashing into me.
“Don’t worry, ladies!” he called. “We’re here to help!”
Down the hall, Isha’s expression turned violent. Her shout halted my approach. “Fitch, get that cop out of here! We can handle our own business, and no, we won’t be pressing charges.”
She reached Liv’s door and pounded her fist against it. The thundering sound seemed to echo in my ears .
Felix stayed put until the clattering crash of breaking furniture came from inside the locked room.
Isha rattled the knob with no success as I closed the gap, sending a rocket of force ahead. It struck the door and flung it open, and I rushed past Isha into the bedroom.
Having visited Liv’s quarters twice in recent weeks, I had a good idea of the layout. I also had a good idea of how much havoc had been wrought. Bedposts were broken and a dresser had been overturned, leaving piles of leather and lace on the floor. The curtain rod hung askew off the window, and invading sunlight highlighted a bloody handprint on the far wall. No one occupied the bed, so I had to search harder for the cause of the disturbance.
Wedged in beside the standing armoire, Liv hugged her arms to her chest. Bright red slicked her bare body, stemming from an unseen wound. She looked my way as Isha and Felix piled in, ready to run but too terrified to move.
A dark form slunk to the floor, black and furry with a slinky tail that flicked side to side. The beast crouched on the other side of the bed, having cornered Liv like helpless prey.
Charging into the room, I threw out a shockwave that struck the big cat’s side. He skidded into the wall, hitting hard enough to shake a painting off its hook. It fell to the floor with a crack as the frame broke.
“That’s enough!” Isha shrieked. Barely words and more of an unearthly keening.
I’d heard the sound before and remembered to cover my ears as sound waves pulsed through the room. The noise resonated, and I doubled over, squeezing my eyes shut in a fight against the auditory assault.
It took only seconds to subside, and I peered out to find the others similarly staggered. Isha alone remained bolt upright, her nostrils flared and chest heaving.
The panther growled as it shook its large head. It stumbled through a turn toward us, then bared its fangs. I thought the beast was snarling until it began to change, and the animalistic sounds became decidedly human. Drawing up from four legs to two, the big cat stood, shedding its thick coat of hair for naked flesh and leaving only greasy, shoulder-length locks in the same inky black.
I should have figured it out before I saw his face. This wasn’t the first time I’d tangled with the smelly shapeshifter. One-eyed Jaxon Rhodes faced us, flashing his sharp teeth as he laughed.
“Take it easy, Madam.” He stuffed a finger in one ear and twisted it. “We were just messing around.”
“Liv, are you all right?” Isha’s voice behind me was eerily calm.
The other woman’s blonde head bobbled, but I didn’t buy it. Her face was pale beneath a heavy application of blush. She shifted uncomfortably, one arm barred across her surgically enhanced breasts and the other over her crotch.
I walked into the room, spotting a silk robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and grabbing it. I tossed it to Liv without taking my eyes off Jax.
Ripley had warned me about this cretin crawling out from whatever rock he’d been hiding under for the past couple of months. I had a whole list of things to say to him but, with Felix looking on, the need to maintain my good cop cover kept me quiet.
Jax, on the other hand, was bound by no such obligation.
“Fitch Farrow,” he crowed, fixing his one eye on me. The other socket was sunken and vacant, redder and more swollen than I expected for a months-old injury. “I hear you’re working for the Capitol. Moving up in the world.” He bounced his brows. “Me, too. To think I was about to settle for just joining your little gang. Now I’m running it.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, which might have been too much to confess considering the investigator a few feet away soaking all of this up like a sponge.
“Gentlemen.” Isha inserted herself in the conversation. “Perhaps you could take this chatter somewhere else?”
Jax stooped to gather his clothes from the floor. “Sure, sure. We should catch up. I’ve got big plans you might wanna know about.”
In my peripheral, Felix reached to the handcuff pouch on his belt.
Jax must have seen the movement, as well. “Go ahead.” He pulled his pants up over his bare ass and buttoned them.
“Take me in,” Jax said. “Throw the book at me. Won’t stick. Shit just slides off these days.” He paused while tugging his shirt over his head to pin me with a meaningful look. “You know all about that, don’t you, Fitch Farrow? ”
My hands curled into fists. I’d worried about witnesses incriminating me but hadn’t considered this asshat ready to dime me out for spite.
I turned toward Felix. “Let’s go.”
The investigator remained in place while Isha went to check on Liv.
Felix pointed at Jax. “Did he say he’s running the Bloody Hex? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s delusional.” I huffed a breath, resisting the urge to grab the shapeshifter and drag him out the door. “And he’s an idiot. Not worth our time.”
The cuffs were in Felix’s hand now, glinting chrome. “We should take him in for questioning. See what he knows.”
Before I could argue, Holland entered the dialogue.
“Yes, we should.”
She stood outside the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“I already told your men we aren’t pressing charges,” Isha said as she wrapped an arm around shivering Liv.
“This is not an arrest, Miss Kapoor,” Holland replied. “It’s a simple interrogation. Assuming Mister…” She looked to Jax to fill the gap.
“Rhodes,” he replied with another flash of his stained teeth. “But just Jax for you, pretty lady.”
“Mister Rhodes.” Holland flapped her hand at Felix, prompting him to put the handcuffs away. “Do you mind accompanying us to the Capitol? We have a few questions, then you’ll be on your way.”
Jax’s smile spread wide. “I’m happy to join you, but only if I get to talk to your pet criminal there.” He nodded at me. “We were buddies in prison, yanno, and I’ve been dying to catch up.”
I aimed an emphatic look at Holland, wishing I was telepathic and could put her off of agreeing to Jax’s terms. It didn’t work.
“Of course, you can talk to him,” she agreed, “so long as you don’t mind me sitting in.”
“Baby, you can sit anywhere you want,” Jax crooned, and Holland nodded.
“There you go, Fitch,” she said. “You can start earning your keep.”
I stood like my feet were mired in cement, watching Holland lead the parade out of BDSM Liv’s room.
First her, then Felix, and finally Jax walking on the heels of his shoes as he passed me with a smirk. Our blood feud aside, his willingness created questions I couldn’t answer. Being a member of the Bloody Hex wasn’t a crime in and of itself, but Jax was also an escaped convict and, last I knew, the city had been doing their best to round up the jailbirds who had flown the coop. Unless Holland and her crew fumbled this situation badly, Jax’s visit to the Capitol was about to turn into an extended stay. He must have known that. Why did he look so happy about it?