Chapter 9 Hannah
Hannah
“You’ve got Ruby. What’s your pleasure today?” I recite from my notepad, finally starting to get the hang of how these calls always start.
It’s my twentieth call of the day, but only my fifth on the wiretap, and so far, I haven’t heard anything from Detectives Dunn and Maddox. I know they’re out in their special van, listening, but other than that, I’ve been well and truly on my own.
It’s terrifying. Any of these men could be an actual killer, and I’m just supposed to chat them up about their dicks? Seems weird.
“Hi, Ruby. I’m Harvey. I like your voice.”
“Thanks, Harvey.” Using what Monica calls a “leading question” to progress the conversation, I ask, “What else do you like?”
Monica is the definition of a book you can’t judge by its cover.
She might look sweet and innocent, but her phone sex skills are downright diabolical.
She’s a true ace at making men cream their pants, as Margo would say, and when I got into work this morning, she gave me a little cheat sheet to help me not feel so out of my depth with these freaking calls.
Honestly, I was so damn overwhelmed with gratitude, I could have kissed her on the mouth.
I didn’t, of course, because that would have made things weird, but I could have.
Not only am I grateful for the much-needed help, but I’m thrilled to have a friend.
After this many years of taking care of my mom and working to pay the bills, I’ve completely let my social life fall to the wayside.
I don’t go out. I don’t text with people.
I barely even talk to anyone other than my mom and Lovie.
But boy, I’m sure talking to people now.
“I like soft female curves,” Harvey says into my ear. “How curvy are you, Ruby?”
“Sooo curvy. If you look up curves in the dictionary, you’ll see my big curvaceous tatas and butt,” I reply without even glancing at my ongoing list of “phone sex words.” According to Monica, agreeing with them—no matter what they say—is the quickest way to get them to climax so we can move on to the next caller.
In reality, I guess I do have an hourglass figure, but I wouldn’t necessarily call myself curvy.
I don’t know, though. When most of the girls I knew went through puberty and entered their teenage years, they became focused on their bodies and exploring their sexuality.
They spent most of their time going out with friends and talking to boys.
But I skipped all that because I was focused on my mom.
Hell, it wasn’t until I was eighteen that I learned how to give myself an orgasm, and I can count the number of times I’ve really enjoyed it on the fingers of one hand—as is obvious, I’m not an experienced lover, even with myself.
Same goes for boyfriends. I’ve had two notable relationships in my life, and the second one ended when I was nineteen and had to drop out of college because my mother’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to a point of me needing to be at home with her.
And now here I am, a single, introverted, twenty-five-year-old virgin with no college degree, a boatload of debt, and a job as a sex worker. Don’t forget that you’re also currently involved in a murder investigation.
I sigh out loud, and my current caller notices.
“You okay, Ruby?”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, clearing my throat and trying to quickly regain my composure. “I’m just sitting here . . . thinking about you and your . . .” I glance down at my notes. “Hard sausage.”
“Of course you are,” Harvey says, his voice husky in a way that lets me know he probably has his hand on said sausage. “Ruby, I want to feel your big, soft breasts. I want to lick and suck on your nipples.”
“Have at it, Harvey. Feast on my tatas,” I offer in reply, picking at something under my fingernail until I get it out.
“God, I love big tits,” he groans. “But just your big tits, Ruby. I only want yours.”
I only want yours? The possessive nature of his words has me sitting up straighter in my chair and sliding to the edge of my seat.
“You only want mine?”
“Only yours,” he rasps, and I don’t like how easily and quickly that confirmation leaves his lips.
Talk about suspicious . . .
“You like my tits that much, Harvey?”
“Oh yeah, baby. I fucking love them.” My eyes narrow at the roughening of his voice. “I don’t want anyone but you, Ruby. Only you.”
Only me? I blink several times. What if Harvey is the guy? The one who killed Heather, the girl who was taking the calls on the Ruby line before me?
Holy fucking shit.
Ever since Detective Dunn and Detective Maddox told me about Heather and their active murder investigation and why they need to listen in on my calls, I’ve felt wary of every single caller.
And Harvey’s possessiveness has certainly struck a nerve.
“You fucking love my tits, Harvey?” I ask, and he responds without hesitation, his voice getting rougher and deeper with each word he speaks.
“Love them, Ruby.”
My hackles rise and my nerves feel frayed at the edges as I home in on Harvey. This piece of shit is sitting here talking to me like he didn’t kill an innocent girl, even though he could be the guy. The murderer. The one who killed Heather.
Anger starts to seep into my veins.
“Like, how much do you like my tits, Harvey?” I ask, my voice grating a little. “Would you cut them off and wear them?”
“Excuse me?”
Oh, sure. Act clueless, you sicko.
“My tits, Harvey,” I snap, refusing to give him any slack. “You love them so fucking much, right? Well, I’m wondering if maybe that love is a little extreme. Like, maybe, just maybe, you don’t need them warm and attached, but you’d like them just as much unattached? How about that?”
“Uh . . . I don’t think—”
“You don’t think what, Harvey?” I question, cutting him off and continuing my own interrogation. From where I’m seeing things, Harvey might as well be cuffed and behind bars. “It’s a yes-or-no question. Do you want to cut off my tits and wear them or not?”
“What is going on?” Harvey questions, panic in his voice. “Are you some kind of Fed or some shit? I thought this was a phone sex hotline.”
“Why would you be worried that I’m a Fed, Harvey? Did you do something wrong? Have you actually cut off some girl’s tits before? Or worse, have you mur—”
The line goes dead before I can finish my sentence, and I yank my headset off with a huff. I was so close to getting somewhere, and he’s just going to hang up? Coward.
Obviously, something is off with Harvey. He has suspect written all over him.
I set my phone to “off duty” and shove back from my desk.
Monica glances up at me from her bright-white booth as I walk by, and some of the other girls lift their heads as I charge past them, too, but I don’t stop until I’m through the door of our office, down the hall, down the stairwell, and out on the street, where a black Sprinter van sits on the curb.
I knock three times with a hard fist on the sliding side door and then step back, crossing my arms over my chest.
The door swoops open with a whoosh, and Detective Dunn climbs out, leaving it cracked behind him as he comes to stand in front of me.
“What’s up?” he asks, his eyebrows drawn together, and the corner of his mouth upturned by just a tick.
“What’s up?” I repeat, gobsmacked that he’s not already talking to me about arresting that sicko Harvey. “I can’t be the only one who heard that conversation, right? You’re listening to my calls, so you clearly heard what just went down.”
“And what exactly do you think went down?” Detective Dunn asks, and I scrunch up my face in annoyance.
“Um . . . I think Harvey might be the guy,” I say, gesturing up and out with my hands. “Don’t you think? He was suspicious as hell and refused to answer my questions.”
He shakes his head slowly, the other corner of his mouth joining the first in its upward movement. “You want the truth?”
I nod several times.
“I think you scared the piss out of him.”
“What?” I step back in shock. “Scared him? What are you talking about?”
“Hannah, you asked him if he wanted to cut off your breasts and wear them.”
“So?” I retort, gesticulating dramatically with my hands. “He was getting all possessive and giving off murdery vibes! I was just trying to get a feel for his psyche! I was trying to help you solve this freaking murder!”
“We’re listening, Hannah. Me and Shane.” Detective Dunn puts a hand to his chest. “We’re sitting here and listening to all of the calls.” His handsome face softens like he’s talking to a child. “You don’t need to get aggressive with these callers.”
“I wasn’t getting aggressive!” I shout, and his face creases with a knowing smile.
“The last caller hung up because he was terrified. He actually questioned if you were a federal agent.”
“Wouldn’t that be exactly what someone who killed a woman would do?” I challenge him, but his demeanor is cool, calm, and collected.
“No. Not exactly.”
I stare at him, my mind reeling over how relaxed he seems about a guy I was convinced was the killer.
“Hannah, why don’t you leave the investigating—our job—up to us,” Detective Dunn says. “And you just focus on doing the calls, which is your job?”
Embarrassment reddens my face as I turn away and let out a huge sigh.
Okay, so maybe I have been a little aggressive with these callers, but I’m scared! Freaking terrified, if I’m being honest with myself. Now that I know one of these guys might be responsible for killing the girl before me, it’s hard not to be completely on edge.
“Hey,” Detective Dunn says, reaching out to touch my shoulder and turn me back toward him.
“It’s a lot. We get that. Just know that we’re here, and we’ll know if something is going in a direction we need to look into.
All you need to do is maintain as much normalcy as possible.
The less on guard these guys are, the better.
The last thing we want to do is scare one off before we can get a lead, yeah? ”
I nod. Sigh. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. I can’t imagine being in your position and handling it as well as you are.”
“Really?” I ask, damn near the brink of tears. I’m overwhelmed. I admit it.
“Really.” His face lightens with a kindness that I feel in my chest. My tear ducts want an emotional release, but I blink hard against them as he continues to speak.
“Hannah, this isn’t easy. None of it is.
You just keep trying your best, and we’ll get this thing solved so you don’t have to think about it anymore. I promise.”
“Okay.” That sounds good. So, so good. The only thing better than that, in fact, would be not having to work this freaking job at all.
When I turn back toward the building’s entrance, I can’t quite bring my legs to start the movement forward. My entire body feels numb and tingly, and if I’m being honest, keeping the urge to cry at bay is taking a Herculean effort on my part.
“Um . . . Detective Dunn?” I turn back toward him. He’s already heading for the van but comes to stand on the sidewalk beside me again.
“Hannah, please just call me Dominic or Dom.”
I nod. “Is it okay if I quit for today, Dominic?” I ask, pushing my hair back out of my face. “I’m just . . . freaked out. And I don’t know if I can calm down enough to do any more today without biting some guy’s head off.”
“No problem at all,” Dominic agrees without hesitation. “We can pick back up tomorrow morning.”
I grimace. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” Dom calls over his shoulder, “Right, Shane?”
“Right, Dom,” Shane replies immediately, and for the first time since coming out here, I remember that he’s been listening to this whole conversation too.