Frank Devaroux, P.I. Case File 01

I swear she blushed a moment later, but then she said "Tomorrow at 9am would be fine. Thank you."

"Am I still under arrest?" I asked her.

"No."

"Good." I pulled my hands out from behind my back and handed her the handcuffs and a paperclip. I'd like to say that I keep lock picking tools, weapons, and condoms hidden all around my apartment for just such a situation. The truth is that I don't clean under the cushions very often. The paperclip was just luck. The condoms on the other hand...

"Would you like something to drink?" I asked her.

She shook her head as she put the handcuffs back into her belt carrier and took a look around my home.

"Not what I expected?" she admitted.

"Black leather? Pictures of bound women? Red lights and whips and chains?"

She nodded.

"I'm not like Ronnie," I said.

"Who are you like?" she asked.

The question surprised me. What did she care who I was like? My cynical and suspicious brain began to put some ideas together and come to some wild conclusions. I dismissed them as wishful thinking brought on by involuntary celibacy.

"I'm like me," I replied as I stood up and retrieved my batons. "And since I'm the only me in the world I can't really compare myself to anyone else."

"That must get lonely," she observed.

I wasn't particularly certain how far I wanted to allow her to crawl around inside my psyche, but sometimes you're so lonely that even the shallow intimacy of a police officer trying to profile you is welcome.

"Sometimes," I allowed. "I've run down a couple of those names and I've got some folks checking on the others. I also asked an associate of mine to run down the information on the website Daria was working for. Have you seen that?"

She shook her head. I pointed to the computer and went into the kitchen to get myself something to drink.

"You sure about the drink? There's only milk, water, or fruit juice to drink. I don't have alcohol in the house and wouldn't offer it to a cop on duty if I did."

"Water then," she answered. "Why no alcohol?"

"I'm an alcoholic," I told her. "I used to find the courage to tell the world to fuck off in the bottom of a bottle."

"How do you find it now?" she asked.

"I blame God," I said.

She laughed. I liked it.

"I'm Catholic," she told me. "We blame man."

By that criterion most of the women I knew were Catholic.

"Well, I'm just generally religious. I blame God for the way I was made, I try to live responsibly, and I go to weekly meetings and confess my sins. I'm popular there. Since I joined the group we've gotten a lot of new people showing up to hear my confessions."

She laughed again.

"This is the Obedient Sluts website," I told her as I handed her the water and sat down at the computer. She pulled up a chair and sat next to me.

"Looks like pretty standard webcam voyeurism," she observed.

I looked at her in surprise.

"Hey, I'm hip to some of the broad trends amongst the pervs," she joked.

It was my turn to laugh. "It is. Though they've added the bondage window dressing to give their product an additional cachet. The highlights are what are interesting. Here's a clip of Ronnie and Daria in action."

She watched it quietly for a minute before asking, "Does that turn you on?"

I think, in retrospect, that it was her tone that decided me. She wasn't condemning me with the question, just asking. I think that's why I didn't tell her it was none of her business.

"Some of it. The control, the obedience, the restraint. Those push my buttons. But this," I said as Ronnie pulled out a crop and started in on Daria, "bothers me."

I let her watch a few more minutes to get a good appreciation of what, exactly, Ronnie had been like. Then I stopped the clip and selected another.

"This is two weeks ago," I informed her. "Ronnie started bringing in other men, singly at first, then in pairs. This is a threesome."

It was fairly disturbing to me and, I guess, to Detective Garza. After a few minutes she asked me turn it off.

"One more," I said and selected something from deeper in the archives. "What do you notice about this?"

"Different woman, same apartment," she noted.

I nodded. "And Mr. Flogger here? He's a repeat customer."

"How many?" she asked.

"At least six women," I said. "I talked with the building super and he said some company rented the apartment and kept women there. He thought they were a porn outfit."

"He was right. What's the name of the company?"

"Skylark Entertainment, he thought. I haven't checked it out yet."

"I'll take care of it," she said. She stood up and took a last drink of her water. "Where are the women now?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Too early to say. I'm looking into it."

"I won't be able to pay you for much of your time," she warned.

I shrugged again. "This kind of crap offends me," I offered as my only explanation. Cops understand that; sometimes a case gets under your skin and you've got to scratch the itch until it's gone. More often than not that means you scratch so hard that you bleed, but it's an occupational risk.

"Thanks for the water."

"Thanks for not arresting me."

"Yet."

I smiled as she left, but I was still puzzled. She could have threatened me over the phone and gotten much the same results. So why had she come over? I didn't believe the answer I kept coming up with because I wouldn't permit myself to believe it. But why not?

**************

Winston Churchill once remarked that there is nothing in life so exhilarating as being shot at to no effect. I will observe that Sir Winston was obviously a twisted man with emotional issues beyond the ken of a layman such as me. I hated being shot at. Since I'd actually been injured the first two times people shot at me I think you'll agree that my aversion is firmly based in objective reality. At least this time they'd missed me. Missed me three times, even. I looked around for the shooter, but with the traffic on the street and people screaming and running for cover it was an impossible task. I thought a blue Lexus might have held the guy since it had peeled away shortly after the shots, but that might just have been someone smart unassing the target area.

Since I was sure someone would already have called 911 I rolled over onto my back, pulled out my cell phone and called Detective Garza.

"Garza? This is Devaroux."

"Have you got something for me?"

"I'm not really sure," I admitted. "I think someone just shot three bullets at me outside my apartment. I'm going to wait around and talk to the investigating officers."

"I'll be down in a few minutes, tell them I'm coming."

"Sure."

I checked to make sure I hadn't wet myself and then stood up and took a look around. Operating on the assumption that the blue Lexus had held the shooter and that I had been the target I did a quick scan to see if I could spot the bullet impacts. It wasn't hard. One bullet had gone wide to my right and spider-webbed the security glass on the door to my building. A spall mark on the brick might be the impact of a second bullet which put the third bullet... into the open window of the apartment on the first floor. Mrs. Erlichmann.

The first patrol officer showed up about then and I explained that a bullet had gone into Mrs. Erlichmann's apartment. He got the super to open the place up and we found her cooling on her couch. Not shot, just scared. But a heart attack is often more fatal than a bullet. I walked outside after the paramedics arrived and spotted Detective Garza talking to another patrol officer. I walked over and caught her attention.

"You okay?" she asked.

"A little twitchy, that's all."

"I saw the ambulance."

Was that concern I was imagining in Detective Garza's voice?

"Mrs. Erlichmann had a heart attack," I explained.

"Oh. You think you were the target?"

"Yeah. Take a look."

We walked over to the doorway and I pointed to the bullet impacts. The thing about shooting multiple shots in rapid succession is that your aiming point tends to climb. A disciplined shooter can compensate for this, but I'd never heard of an aiming point going noticeably down. Besides, a disciplined shooter wouldn't have missed me with three shots.

"There, there, and there," I said. "I'd guess it was a left-handed shooter, but that's just a guess. Since I was walking out the door at the time and that's where the impact trail starts I'd guess I was the target."

"Yeah," she nodded in agreement. "Why?"

"I'm only working one case," I replied.

"No jealous husbands?"

"The only woman I'm seeing on a regular basis is you."

"Okay. I'm late for court. Give the patrol guys your statement and we'll talk sometime this evening," she decided.

"I need to figure out a way to get into the Indigo Lounge this evening," I told her. "One of the names on Daria's list is supposed to be working an event this evening."

"So go talk to her, we can talk after."

"It's not that easy. The Indigo Lounge is couples only and it's a lifestyle night. Finding someone to go with me is not a simple task."

She chewed her lower lip for a moment and then nodded. "I'll go with you. What time should I pick you up?"

I'd been hoping for that response, but it still surprised me.

"Nine."

"Wear something sexy?" she asked.

"Slinky," I amended.

"I'll see you then," she called back over her shoulder.

I watched her go and reflected that it was a funny day when I could be shot at and still feel so good. Maybe Sir Winston wasn't such a twisted man after all.

*********

"What's your first name?" I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat of her car.

"Eloise," she replied.

"Eloise?" I echoed her. "You look Latina to the bone. How did you end up with a name like Eloise?"

"Mixed marriage," she replied as she pulled into traffic. "My dad is Hispanic, and a cop, my mom is first generation American. Her family came from France."

"Must have been interesting. How'd that work out?"

"Not so well, actually. They fought a lot and separated when I was four."

"Divorce?"

"Well, a Catholic divorce. They're still married but she lives in Boulder and he lives in Highlands. Tell me about the Indigo Lounge."

"It's an adult club. Not a sex club, but a place where adults can go and have sex together. They mostly cater to the swingers, but twice a month they have lifestyle nights to bring in the bondage crowd. It's pretty upscale and they screen everyone to keep it that way. Speaking of which, are you carrying?"

"Yeah, I've got a personal weapon."

"No guns or knifes are allowed on site. We're going to have to step through a metal detector and your purse will have to go through an x-ray machine."

"They've got that kind of money?"

"Upscale."

"Shit. What about you?"

"My batons are gravity locking and they're made of ceramics and plastic. I like to be able to carry them wherever I choose to go."

"That why you don't carry?" she asked.

"No. I don't carry because I shot somebody once and I didn't much like it."

When we arrived at the Lounge I got out of the car first to give her a moment of privacy. She was wearing a black, silk dress with spaghetti straps and a plunging back. There was only one place she was able to conceal a pistol in that outfit. When she got out of the car we walked across the parking lot towards the entrance.

"Who are we looking for?"

"Sariel. Bottle blonde, angel wing tattoos on her back, about five foot four. She should be one of the entertainers."

"Interesting name," she observed.

"I looked it up. Sariel was one of the fallen angels."

"And by 'entertainers' you mean?"

As we were walking into the club I decided to explain a little later. "You'll see," I promised.

The Indigo Lounge is a nice place. As you might imagine, blue lights feature heavily. There's a dance/performance floor and clusters of seating arranged around pillars done up as Greek columns. Draped fabric hides the roof and separates the room into sections that you can wander through. There's a bar in one corner, but alcohol is members only from their private lockers. Not really something that concerned me. Nevertheless, the bar was where I bee-lined to.

"Two waters," I told the bartender. He was a big guy wearing black and I knew that he doubled as a bouncer and tripled as a host. "Is Sariel available?"

"Maybe," he replied.

I sighed and put a twenty on the bar. He glanced at it but didn't take it. I put another on top of it and they vanished into his massive paw like they hadn't ever been there.

"She just got in a few minutes ago. When she's ready I'll send her over. You up to performing with her?"

"I just want to talk for a few minutes and then I'll turn her loose," I replied. "It's worth her while."

He nodded skeptically and I collected the bottled water and handed one to Eloise. Can you get over that name? I couldn't. Eloise.

She pointed to an empty cluster of seats and I nodded. We walked over and sat down.

"Seems like any other nightclub," she observed.

On the surface it sure looked that way. The music wasn't deafening loud and there were a few people on the dance floor, mostly women. They weren't even particularly scantily clad in comparison to some of the other clubs in town. About half of the seating clusters were occupied. Instead of explaining that it was early yet and that everyone was drinking at other bars before coming here to get their kink on I just lifted the padded top of a side-table and let her examine the selection of toys contained within it.

Sariel, when she appeared a few minutes later, was pretty much as described. She had rings in her nipples and nose in addition to the tattoos. She knelt down in front of me and gave me a critical look.

"I didn't think you were into my kink, sir," she said.

"Not particularly, but I'd like to ask you a few questions."

She tossed her hair and shook her head. "I'm here tonight to have fun, sir. I'm not interested in answering questions. With your permission?"

On the one hand, I'd already talked to three other people on Daria's list. Of the other four, however, Sariel was the only one I'd been able to find a lead on. The other three were just gone and no one knew where. And I hadn't learned anything new from the ones I had talked to.

"I've got a secret?" I asked.

Sariel gave me a questioning look as she sized me up. She knew my reputation, and 'I've got a secret' was a challenge as much as it was a game. "Certainly, sir."

"Thirty minute time limit," I declared. "What's your safe word?"

"Safe word," she replied.

"Limits?"

"Nothing illegal, no cutting."

I snorted. That was like saying 'anything goes'. It was also like saying 'do your best, because you don't scare me at all'.

I pulled out a set of handcuffs. "Eloise, would you please cuff her? Hands in front."

"What are you doing?" she asked me as she took the cuffs from me and secured Sariel's hands.

"I'm going to beat the information out of her," I replied. "Want to help?"

She shook her head. "I can't do that, Frank. Not even in fun. I'm a cop. Beating information out of someone?"

I nodded. "I understand. Sit back and watch. Keep me hydrated, if you would."

I attached Sariel's hands to a ring in the column and pulled a collapsible spreader bar out of the side table. It took me a few minutes to adjust it and secure it to Sariel's ankles. But when I was done she was pretty well exactly the way I wanted her.

I picked a short-tail flogger from the toys and gave it an experimental twirl. "I've got a secret," I announced to the people gathering around. "Thirty minute time period. Safe word is safe word. I'm starting now."

Even over the music I could hear the murmur of people discussing this development. I tried to shut them out and focus my attention on not throwing up.

"Tell me about Ronnie, Sariel," I said.

"Who?" she replied in tones of faux innocence.

I snapped the flogger around hard, curling it around her thigh so that the ends snapped against her inner thigh. She hissed and her body jumped. I brought the flogger back and gave her an identical stroke to the other thigh.

"Ronnie?" I prompted.

"Reagan?" she responded.

The trick, with a flogger, is getting the tips to snap just where you want them. I'm no artist with one of those, and I can't claim that enthusiasm made up for my lack of skill, but I was determined. I didn't bother asking any more questions, I just went at her and tried to make sure I got every single sensitive portion of her body below the shoulders. I added some weights to the nipple rings. I put alligator clips on her earlobes and labia. I smacked her ass purple with a paddle. I even, at the end, put her hands behind her and lifted them with a rope.

I was exhausted when time was called and we were both sweating buckets. The voice that called time had sounded familiar, but I was too busy to puzzle out exactly why that was the case. I carefully removed Sariel from the bondage devices and put her into a thin cotton robe. I walked her over to the couch and sat her down.

"Two waters please," I asked Eloise. She wordlessly got up and walked over to the bar.

I sat down next to Sariel and pulled her against me. She didn't make any complaint and just cuddled up to me, breathing hard.

"I didn't think you had that in you, Franklin," Regina remarked as she sat down next to me.

Now I was able to place the voice. Regina was wearing a suede evening gown and she had two of her boys, leashed by the testicles, kneeling at her feet. 'Boys' is something of a misnomer. One of them was a walking billboard for Denver tattoo parlors and the other looked like an overweight banker.

"Did you enjoy that?" she purred.

"No," I replied.

"I did," came Sariel's comment. "That was very nice, sir. I didn't expect that from you."

"Nor did anyone else, I think," Regina said. "You won't be lonely for long after word of this gets around, Franklin. Well done."

Regina's presence was unwelcome at that point in time. Very unwelcome. Still more so because her boys were pressing in and I was already uncomfortable enough. I looked up and saw Eloise coming back with the water.

"You're in Eloise's seat, Regina. Please move."

She frowned at me, but she moved. Then she laughed as Eloise sat down next to me.

"Detective Garza, I thought I recognized you. Welcome. Are you enjoying our party?"

"I'm learning to, Regina."

The answer seemed to shock Regina as much as it shocked me.

"What did you want to know about Ronnie, sir?" Sariel asked.

"Anything," I replied. "Where are his other subs? Did he have any enemies?"

"Did he ever go to Dallas?" Eloise interjected.

"Dallas?" Sariel asked. "Sure. I went down to Dallas with him once, maybe three years ago. He'd gotten a lot of money from somewhere and he had a long party weekend. It was me and two other subs. We flew down first class and hit all the clubs. A nightly orgy in the hotel room, room service, champagne, and rented limos. Ronnie was blowing through the cash like there was no tomorrow. In one of the clubs he dropped maybe twenty or thirty thousand dollars on roulette. He beat me so hard I had to go to the emergency room to get a cut stitched and I missed the excitement."

"Excitement?" I prompted.

"One of the subs... Dana. Dana said the other sub, Uma, freaked out and Ronnie had to have her committed. It really spoiled the mood and ended the party. Ronnie was really upset, pale and sweating. Dana wouldn't talk to him, barely talked to me. It was an uncomfortable flight back. Economy seating, too."

"Did you ever see Uma again?" I asked.

"No. I asked Ronnie about her once and he said she'd committed suicide. Sad. She was pretty and she was devoted to Ronnie; she'd do anything he asked. A real love slave. Sir, I hate to be a bother, but I've got to pee. May I please go to the bathroom?"