Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 04

Sorry for lack of post in the month of October. Long month for me work wise.

-Trixie Kirkpatrick-

Monday - April 19, 2021

The dashboard of the surveillance vehicle is littered with food wrappers and cups from various fast-food restaurants. We've been at this all week, and the car has as the awful, combined scent of cheap burgers and old man ball sweat. Miles and I have been running this in twelve-hour shifts, and I'm not entirely convinced he's bothered to shower. Miles and I did our shift change hours ago, and I must roll down the window to stop my eyes from burning.

Our sights have been set on a parking garage of all things. We believe it's one of the businesses that our real target has been laundering their money through; the 9^th Legion. We're just bean counting right now. Every time a car goes to park at the garage, I use a pair of binoculars to grab the license plate while it's stopped with the attendant. I radio that information and other details to another team in air conditioning. Make, model, and color. That is all compiled, and I radio back when a car leaves.

The money at the end of the day is locked in a bag and delivered to the bank by hand the next morning. The garage is open at all hours, but the day's earnings are taken the next day, and exchanged for what our consultant says is likely a fixed amount. Enough to break larger bills and make change for costumers. This makes the accounting easier if you maintain a baseline, and easier to detect someone skimming off the top.

The garage is five dollars an hour. It's a fixed price, and that's easy for us to track. So we sit and count the cars and hours. Blue Nissan arrives at five thirty and leaves at six forty; five dollars. Black Mustang arrives at four and leaves at seven; fifteen dollars. We have a rough, but likely accurate estimate of how much money is being earned per day. If we track the weekly take is five thousand, but they deposit seven thousand, that's probable cause.

Five hours into my shift a car pulls up behind me. I double check the garage then look in my rearview. Every day we swap cars out, so the same car isn't just loitering. Another Street Crimes Unit detective is behind me, so I start the car to move so he can take the front spot. We need to maintain the line of sight on the garage. I pull it around the block and park. I grab a cup of coffee to go from a diner before rounding the block again and entering the new vehicle on the passenger side.

"Long day?" Detective Hall asks. Our shift change is noon, and the car swap has routinely occurred at five in the afternoon. Doing shifts changes in the middle of the night is more conspicuous. When nothing else is moving, you moving is noticeable. Middle of the day we're hiding in plain sight.

"Surveillance sucks in general," I reply. I remove the lid from the cup and throw it on the dash like a frisbee. "You look into what I asked for?"

"Regarding Mr. Pewter?" Hall asks and I nod. "Yeah."

"And?"

"He knew her," he replies, and I smile. I knew it.

Matthew Pewter is a renowned criminal finance consultant we've contracted for this investigation. When he came in to talk with us, his eyes couldn't leave one face on our board of personalities involved with the 9^th Legion. He was fixated on Lady Smith, a locksmith we believe is a prostitute. She's also likely a gambling addict who owes the Legion money and is selling tips on vulnerable locations she scopes out during her legitimate job.

"Did he appear during our time surveilling her?" I ask.

"No. Apparently he told LT a few days after he came in that he had met her during an innocuous coincidence. Met her at a diner and got shot down trying to pick her up," he explains. Matthew told the Lieutenant, but not us, and then she didn't fill us in? "Boss didn't think it was relevant."

"Awfully convenient," I say. I was still right that he knew her, but now I don't know what that means. "What diner?"

"Queen of Hearts," he says. I look at the cup in my hand and turn it until I see the logo with a red heart wearing a tilted crown. "That's the place."

"You mind holding down the car for a minute?" I ask. He shrugs and starts a comms check. I look both ways to cross the street and round the block again. The Queen of Hearts is on the corner. It's façade still appears like an old single pump gas station. I've driven past the establishment during breakfast hours, and it often has ten to twenty people standing outside waiting for the bar only seating to open. This time of day it's just a handful of people getting ready to go on night shift.

A real bell chimes above your head when you enter. One customer looks over their shoulder at me, then back down to their coffee. The décor is a mixture of poker and Wonderland. A gorgeous woman is behind the counter, standing around sheepishly waiting for customers to finish drinks or who appear ready to order. Her posture suggests she dreads the moment she has to interact with someone. She's on the side of the bar closest to the door, holding a menu with trembling hands.

"You can sit where there is a seat," she says awkwardly. I can't tell if she meant to say something else, or that's just the way she talks. Her name tag says Dinah.

"I was literally here a minute ago," I say, holding up my cup of coffee that is still hot.

"Oh. Umm, do you need a refill? No charge," she says. I shrug and extend the cup to get topped off. The woman grabs a pot and carefully pours it with both hands. She's trembling, afraid she'll spill it on me. "Anything else?"

"Has this man ever been here?" I ask. I place the cup on the counter and find a picture of Matthew Pewter on my phone. It's from his consulting website. She leans over the counter to look closer, and shrugs.

"I don't know. Maybe," Dinah says. She did already forget me, and I had only left minutes before.

"What about her?" I ask, and slide through a few pictures to find Lady Smith.

"She's here all the time," Dinah says, and points down the bar. "She's here right now."

I tilt my body over the bar and see Lady dipping toast in the yolk of sunny side up eggs. I thank her and slowly walk down the seating. All the seats are the playing card suit of hearts, moving upward in value and into face cards the further away from the door. Sitting at the Queen of Hearts is Lady Smith. She feels my presence and turns to me.

"Jesus, can I just have a minute to myself without you fucking vultures circling me?" she asks, dropping the last piece of her toast on the plate in frustration.

"Not following you, just getting coffee," I say, raising my cup up to show her. "You know a man named Matthew Pewter?"

"You know what harassment is?" she asks.

"I admit, Miles Deacon comes on a little strong," I say, and I'm honest about that. Miles lacks subtlety and tact. He's a good detective and dedicated to his craft. The only problem is that he's stubborn, making it more difficult to disengage a potential suspect when the evidence isn't going the way he wants it to. The less things add up, to him it means the more they must be hiding. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"What do you want cop?" she asks.

"Just curious, do you known a man named Matthew Pewter?"

"No."

"You sure?" I ask and pull up his picture again. Lady huffs but does turn to look at my screen. "Look familiar?"

"Actually, yeah," she says, and takes a sip of coffee. "Not that long ago, he sat on the Jack of Hearts and asked if I wanted a real meal. Saw his wedding ring, told him to fuck off."

"Not into married men?" I ask.

"Detective, can I just eat my breakfast?" I ask.

"Little late for breakfast."

"It's never too late for breakfast."

"Can't argue with that," I say. After a pause of silence, I place my cup on the counter and sit next to her. She pretends to ignore me. "What do you recommend?"

"I recommend you leave me the fuck alone."

"Does that come with hashbrowns?" I ask. Lady laughs a little, shaking her head and turns to me. "You're an enigma."

"I thought you believed I was only a whore."

"Deacon believes that. I'm not convinced yet. We've done some due diligence looking into you. Talked to a lot of your old customers. Fast, efficient, friendly, and professional. That's the answers we got. Last year after taxes, you pocketed nearly seventy thousand. Yet you live in a one room apartment off the highway and drive a car nearly as old as you are. Do you want to talk about that gambling problem?"

"I'm working on it," Lady says. She's not even withholding her gambling addiction. Police prefer when you're trying to keep that a secret, because then we can leverage it against you.

"What's your poison? I ask.

"Sports betting and hold'em. Keno if I'm feeling frisky."

"Any good tips?"

"Don't bet against Tom Brady," she says, and I laugh.

"You're way too smart to be where you are."

"I didn't even graduate high school," Lady says. She finishes her food and slides the plate away from herself.

"Diploma is a sheet of paper. I know people who have a Master's degree who can't tie their own shoes," I say. Lady drops some money on the counter and leaves the Queen of Hearts chair. "It's easy to think we're just out to get you. We're not. We're here to help."

"Just like the police helped find who killed my dad?" she asks. I didn't know her father was murdered. "He was a nobody, and it wasn't worth your time."

I think Lady knows more than she's letting on, but she's a tough nut to crack. It'll take something big to make her accept we're trying to help her. Something like solving her father's cold case. I'm tired of surveillance anyway.

Lady is done talking and walks out without another word toward me. She warmly says goodbye to Dinah as the bell announces her departure.

--

-Lady Smith-

Tuesday - April 20, 2021

It's around noon when I get a call from Ryan Justin that I have another customer. I have a blood pressure sleeve in the crack of a car door and I'm talking with the phone pressed to my cheek with my shoulder. A mother left her purse on the floor in the back of the car while pulling her son out of his car seat. She went grocery shopping and now is worried her food will spoil if she can't get it home in time. I asked how she paid for groceries if her purse was in the car still. Apple pay on her phone.

"New client," Ryan explains as I extend my stick in the gap to reach the door lock switch. I open the door and the alarm starts going off. "What the hell are you doing?"

"My actual job," I say. The mother gets her purse, and the alarm stops. She pays in cash and says 'no' when I ask if she wants a receipt. Some insurance covers lockout services, but that's none of my business.

"You available tonight? Last minute customer."

"Where am I picking him up?" I ask.

"He's driving you. You got a good dress?" he asks.

"Why?"

"He's requested a girlfriend experience. A piece of eye candy on his arm for a fund-raising event."

That's different. So far, it's been simple pick him up and fuck him jobs.

"Who holds a fund-raising event on a Tuesday?" I ask.

"Rich people. Do you want it or not?" he asks.

"Time?"

--

I cut my workday a little short to get home and change into the driver's uniform. I prepare my dress on a hanger and immediately drive over to the King's Chariot. Bianca Justin is at the front desk as always and shakes her head when she sees me. The fact I'm holding the dress by the hanger over my shoulder doesn't help her opinion of me.

"Client is requesting a BMW. Here's your itinerary," Bianca says. She extends me a sheet of paper fresh off the printer. The paper is still warm.

"Thank you," I reply. I don't mean it, and she knows I don't. Tone is louder is volume.

"What's the dress for? Black is a bold choice Ms. Lewinsky," she says.

"Maybe you should put it on. A deep dick could loosen you up a bit," I reply while not looking at her. I just read the address I need to get to and the client's name. Dylan Harper. My eyes trace up the paper back to Bianca, who looks like that deep dick comment cut deeper than I thought it would.

"Ms. Smith?" I hear from the hall. Lucas Justin is coming down the hall, and he's as gorgeous as ever. "You got a minute?"

"About to drive, but I could spare a few," I say, instinctually moving hair behind my ear.

"I tried getting you last week. Same issues as before, missing inventory," he says as I start walking toward him. "What's with the dress?"

"Night life calls me," I reply.

"On a Tuesday?" he jests, and I shrug. "What's your scene?"

"Thinking a fund-raiser tonight."

Lucas takes me to his office which is directly across the hall from his brother Ryan. He's not as avid a sports fan, but his office has a theme; family. Pictures of him and his siblings when they were kids. Bianca in a graduation gown. Ryan and him drinking a few beers, arms wrapped over the other's shoulder, with a Seahawks game in the background on small TV in a cramped apartment. No parents though. Even I had parents. It really was just them growing up.

Bianca makes more sense now. She's protective of her brothers because they really are all she has. I'm a threat to that, because women who get paid to have sex are also the women who will fuck her brothers over in divorce court.

"What's missing?" I ask.

"Tires," he says.

"Someone is stealing tires?" I ask, and he nods. Tires on luxury vehicles aren't cheap. "How are they not getting caught on camera walking out, or rolling out with tires?"

"No idea," he says, rubbing his hands down his face in frustration. "In the last two months, nearly five thousand worth of inventory has just rolled away."

"That tells me it's not one guy," I suggest, and he nods in agreement. "You got a central camera room?"

"All on my desktop," he says, and makes a few clicks with his mouse. He summons me to the other side of his desk, and I lean over to look at the screen better. I wish this shirt showed more cleavage. I'm counting six cameras in the maintenance shop, two in the detail shop, two in the reception area, and eight externals. All fixed angle cameras with good quality video image. Every door is covered. I don't see any blind spot on the shop floor.

I look at his set up for a few minutes, and he remains silent as I form my thoughts. He looks at me, then to his feeds, then back to me, trying to get an idea of where my eyes are going.

"Any ideas?" he finally asks.

"It's a good set up. Not many blind spots, if any," I say. "Where were the missing items?" He points at a screen gazing over the shop. Rows of tires are arranged standing up in professional and organized rows by size. Hard to not be seen stealing from it. "Definitely not a blind spot there."

"Then how do they do it? It takes over a full workday to notice because they replace the tires with older ones, so it isn't discovered right away." Assuming he notices it that fast. He's probably started daily inventories.

"What's the likelihood of them having access to the cameras?"

"Not high. CCTV all connected to this computer. It's not wi-fi or blu-tooth."

"If you don't have a blind spot to exploit, you make your own," I say, and he looks at me. "Can you change motion trigger zones?" I ask, and he doesn't entirely know what I mean. "Block off parts of the field of vision that will trigger a motion detection?"

Lucas makes a few clicks, and a checkerboard pattern appears over the recording.

"Block everything but these," I say, pointing to three squares. "It'll ignore everything but that." I reach for the mouse, but flinch when I touch his hand. He lets go so I can control the cursor. "Sorry. Then, keep the motion alert on. I take it you only have it on when you're closed so your system isn't going off every three seconds?" he nods. "Keep it on with this camera in these zones. It won't be going off every three seconds, but it will when these tires move."

"Worth a shot," he says with a panty drenching smile. "Thanks."

"No problem boss," I say, and slowly leave his side of the desk.

"You can just call me Lucas, M'Lady." Great, he's probably read my job application and now knows that Lady is my actual first name.

"If you promise to never call me that again, I'll call you Lucas," I say, an offer he agrees to with a grin. "Anyway, I gotta drive."

"Thanks again."

--

Dylan Harper isn't from Montana. You can always tell when someone isn't from Montana when you've lived here your whole life. His accent is hard to gauge. It's flat like the mid-west, but he uses words no one from that region uses. Once he said "hella" I knew it was California, or at least west coast.

Mr. Harper isn't much older than me, later twenties, and is remarkably plain. He's not handsome or ugly enough to look at twice. He's just normal. Taller than me, but almost everyone is. He's dressed plainly in jeans and a t-shirt when I arrive, but I see a suit in a dry cleaner bag strewn on his couch. Clean shaven, trimmed haircut, not skinny, fat, or muscular. Mr. Average.

The house he is currently occupying is likely his parents or just a vacation home. It's hardly ever occupied. There are no pictures on the walls of family and friends, just replicas of Jackson Pollok's work. Most of the furniture is covered in sheets. It's a home full of ghosts and dust bunnies.

"You can change in the bathroom," he says after I introduce myself. I shrug and ask where it is. I prepare fast and return, the back of my dress still open because this zipper is conveniently stuck.

"Help a girl out," I say. For some reason, men are always more nervous zipping me up than down. They touch skin on accident and they think they've blown it. "Thank you." I felt his hands shake as he did it. Clearly his first time doing this.

"You don't have to be so nervous. This goes as far as you're comfortable with," I say. Dylan exhales and nods at the same time. "So, I'm going to a fund-raiser with you? What's the cause?"

"What?"

"What are the funds being raised for?" I ask.

"Oh, um, I honestly don't remember," he says, and pulls out his phone to refresh his own memory. So many fund-raisers, he doesn't remember which one he's going to. "Historical preservation."

"Gotta pay for that non-profit overhang somehow," I say, and I'm not entirely sure he knows what I mean by that. If you're debating between donating to Goodwill, or the Salvation Army, remember that nearly every penny for the Salvation Army goes toward salvation, and the CEO of Goodwill makes over half a million a year. So long as you can get passed their opinion on gay anything. I grew up poor, Salvation Army or naked were my options, don't judge me.

"Black tie event. Auction toward the end. Proceeds are donated to charities in the city," he explains, as if I hadn't figured that part out yet.

What I haven't figure out is why he needs or wants me there with him. He wants to be seen with a woman, and who the woman is, isn't important. Only two things cross my mind as an explanation. One, he's a closeted homosexual, or two, another woman is there, likely an ex, and he's using me to put on a show. I can play to either of those scenarios. I just need to know which role I'm playing.

"Are you gay?" I ask, and he looks flabbergasted I asked that. "Not gay. What's her name?"

"Who?"

"The girl you want to make jealous," I say, and he chuckles a little while looking away.

"That obvious, huh?"

"It's either that or you're gay and not ready to come out."

"Vanya," he says. Damn that name's Russian. "We met in boarding school. She's one of my oldest friends. We dated briefly last year, but that ended pretty abruptly. We still mingle in the same social circles."

"So, you want to get back together, but you're too much of a chickenshit to say it. Your plan is to what? Maker her jealous?"