Only One Draw Ch. 07

"Hello, have I finally gotten through to Hardesty?" The voice on the line was gruff and irritated. Hardesty shouldn't even be in the office on a Saturday morning, so he wasn't surprised the weekend telephone operators hadn't chased him right down. But he was. So was Glen Whitehall. They had been doing nothing but spinning wheels and waiting for something to happen and some of the forensics had come together and been delivered on the four Trans Murders cases--thus far--and the cabbie attack on Natalie.

They'd been called about the reports being ready earlier in the morning and had hustled down to the police department. Then the paperwork had been misplaced between the lab and their offices and they sat around moaning about how little evidence they had in relationship to the bodies that were building up. When the courier finally arrived with the found reports so did Glen with their takeout lunches, so they had to scan and then read and then discuss the report findings while eating and ruining their digestions.

It was a good thing that Hardesty and Whitehall were good buddies while being polar opposites, or they would have been at each other's throats.

The cabbie, Dexter Johnson, who was still missing since he had been fingered as Natalie's attacker--and, by presumption, the serial killer of the other T-girls--was their focus now. Natalie had indicated he was sloppy in his attack on her, so forensics should have found DNA on all of the victims if the police wanted to get this wrapped up and hung on Johnson.

They had found his DNA on Natalie and one of the dead T-girls, Nicola, the one who'd been found knifed behind an abandoned 19th Street gas station. But they hadn't found it on the other T-girls who apparently had been dumped someplace other than where they had been killed. Destiny was a floater, so the DNA obtained from her body was scant and compromised, but nothing of Johnson was found on the first vic, Liam Hathaway, or the third, Shawnda.

On top of this, although all were choked, strangulation--garroting--was given as the cause of death for Liam, Destiny, and Shawnda, the cause of death for Nicola was given as stabbing, and that's also what Johnson was going to try with Natalie, according to her.

Not enough to pin all of them definitively on Dexter Johnson. Further hindering this, all of them were connected to the artist, Griffin Gould. They all had modeled for him more than once. They didn't have Gould's DNA for forensics to match up, and these were T-girl prostitutes. A multitude of men had had their DNA all over them all. Forensics had their job cut out for them in tracking down all of the matches.

They somehow had to get Griffin Gould's DNA. Even when and if they did, though, Natalie said he had sex with all his models. His defense would be that any DNA he had on all of the vics would be from a consensual sexual encounter, not from killing them. He'd be able to say there were other models of his with his DNA on them who were still very much alive.

"Mentioning Gould," Whitehall said, "On the way out for the takeout, there was a message in my slot for me from Interpol. I read it while I was waiting for the burgers to be charred. You asked me to get background on the Italian guy living with Gould as his so-called assistant."

"Luigi Finelli, right."

"Right, but wrong," Whitehall said. "They have an Italian on file to match the fingerprints on the immigration file I pulled, but his name isn't Finelli. He isn't even a 'he' anymore. He's one of those full sex change trans, going by Lila Castelone, last encountered in Italy."

"I guess that's not a surprise, if she's tied up with Gould. But I wonder why she's posing as a male here."

"Maybe to keep from being identified. She killed a man in Milan. She claimed she was attacked by a guy with a knife there. At the end of the attack, he was dead. When the court enquiry came up on that, she was gone. They didn't pursue it because they determined it had been self-defense. I guess there's a lot of leeway in Italy for that."

"So, we should get her DNA checked too. I guess we need to get a court order on those."

They went back to the reports in hand. Forensics had delivered a whole patchwork of matchup combinations for Hardesty and Glen to go through that morning in the nearly deserted Vice Homicide unit. Studying the reports was making the two cross-eyed. So, it was somewhat of a relief when a gruff and irritated-voiced telephone caller tracked Hardesty down.

"This is Hardesty," he answered.

"Ned Nesbit here, Homicide Unit. I'm in a warehouse off L Street. Think you might want to come down here."

"Another prostitute murdered?" Hardesty asked, not sure, if that was the case, that someone from Homicide had been called in to begin with rather than Vice Homicide. "A T-girl, I hope not?"

"I sure hope not. This guy is more like a pro football tackle. You've been putting out a call for sightings of a cabbie with number 1493, haven't you?"

"Yep," Hardesty answered.

"Well, I think we've found him stretched out in the backseat of his cab here in a warehouse. And I don't think he's just taking a nap."

Forty minutes later Hardesty and Whitehall were standing with Homicide Detective Ned Nesbit back by the door of the warehouse, where the air current coming down the alley could counter the smell coming back at them from the inside of the warehouse. One of their first observations was that Johnson already was dead, here in the back of his cab, when Natalie gave them his cabbie number and they started trying to track him down.

The medical examiner had arrived, freeing them to move away from the cab, which was sitting deeper in the dimly lit warehouse with its back door open.

"So, what do you think?" Nesbit asked.

"You mean about the stiff having his pants and undies around his ankles and being dumped across the backseat?" Hardesty asked.

"Yeah, that. Doesn't seem to be a robbery gone bad."

"My guess is it was an intended rape--by this guy--gone bad in a way he didn't expect. The switchblade is probably his."

"Yeah, I reckon," Nesbit said. "So, what was your interest in this guy?"

"He tried it over by the Tidal Basin a week ago. A T-girl. He tried to cut her while fucking her in the backseat of the cab--with a switchblade--and she got away from him. She eventually remembered it was a Capitol Cab Company ride and came up with his cabbie number."

"So, you saying this might be connected to the trans girl serial killings of the last couple of weeks? Maybe the case is solved? Maybe someone has saved the police and court systems a perp walk?"

"Yeah, maybe the serial killings have been solved--but with some loose ends."

"Like who did this and why she--or he--didn't report it," Whitehall added to the conversation.

"Yeah, maybe that. You were here and looking around a long time, Nesbit. See any signs of a blood trail from the cab or any suspicious piles of material around in the corners?"

"Nope. There obviously have been some homeless people in here. The door's off its hinges. That's why the warehouse is empty. This was found by a crew coming to get the door fixed. If any homeless guys have been around in the last couple of days, they've decided to stay clear of here as long as this is the scene."

"From what I saw, the struggle in the cab was pretty fierce," Whitehall said. "Any chance it could have been payback... you know, revenge, or something?"

"You wondering if Natalie got to him?" Hardesty asked.

"Yeah, or maybe some other T-girl he tried on before and didn't get it done."

"That's possible. At this point almost anything is possible. She's still in Chicago, I think and claimed she was there when this would have gone down. She was supposed to call me as soon as she came back. It's something to check on. Whatever it is--whoever it was, they didn't inform the cops," Hardesty said. "That puts a big question mark on why."

Nesbit spoke up. "Maybe homeless guys can pin down when this happened if the ME can't. You could check that out. But as far as why they aren't anywhere around now, probably they're panicked. Didn't want to come anywhere close to being tagged for this. And, speaking of being tagged. If this is the guy you were looking for, can I assume this is your case and I can go on to some less sordid murder? I'm sure there were several in the city last night."

"Yes, we'll take it from here. Thanks for calling."

When Nesbit was gone, Hardesty said, "Well, moving right along, I'll try to get the court order to get the DNA on Gould and friend if you'll fill out the request for a full forensics on the inside of that cab."

"That should be a hell of a job," Whitehall said. "The cab's got mud on it. There have got to be hundreds of people who have been in the back of that cab since the taxi was washed and cleaned inside."

"Right, but it will include whoever did this and, with luck, evidence of all of the other Trans Murder case victims."

"So, you're not fully convinced Johnson killed them all. You're not satisfied the case is closed."

Hardesty paused before answering. He was giving the cab in which the medical examiner and team were having trouble working in the close quarters a hard look. "Whoever did him is out there and didn't report it. We need to know why. And, no, I think there are too many coincidences and loose ends here for the answer to be as simple as 'the cabbie did them all.'"

* * * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gould only sees people by appointment." Luigi Finelli started to close the door on the tall, willowy man in the strangely flamboyant yellow suit, with black cape and walking stick that had been used to knock on the door of Griffin Gould's brownstone row-house mansion near Dupont Circle.

"I have an appointment. Tell Grif that Pammy has arrived, as scheduled." The Martina's drag queen, Pammy, had donned her daytime male look--and former identification--of Peter Drexall to come out in the sunshine.

"Pammy?" Luigi said in a bit of disgust. "I hadn't scheduled--"

"Who is it?" Griffin Gould queried from over Luigi's shoulder. "Yes? You are...?" he said to Peter Drexall as he spied the "out there" figure on his doorstep.

"It's me, Pammy. You told me to come to you for a sitting today."

"Oh, yes, right. Come on in, Pammy," Gould said, reaching out and pulling the T-girl around Liugi's figure that was half blocking the doorway.

"I didn't call her for an appointment," a disgruntled Luigi said, as he slammed the door shut. And, indeed, although Gould had told him to set up a second sitting for drawings with the Martina's club show performer, Luigi hadn't carried through, any second sitting seen by him as a threat to his own relationship with the artist.

But no one heard his disgruntlement. Gould and Pammy, nee Peter Drexall, were already headed up the stairs, to Gould's art studio. They were chattering away amicably. Gould's hand was on the showgirl's rump, and Pammy was quite pleased to have it there, with thoughts of what was to come after the sitting for the drawings. Grif was always so forceful, commanding, and inventive.

Pammy had brought her props of many-colored feather boas. She also had brought her Marilyn Monroe blonde wig. After she'd changed from her outrageous man mode into her flamboyant woman one, Gould put her in various poses on the bed, in her wig and boas, showing a Marilyn coquettish pout and all highlighting the manufactured sex between her thighs and, most important and prominent, her magnificent surgically styled melon breasts. The photo was going to be an over-the-top one, but it would provide pizazz to the overall collection.

The last of the drawings had her rising from her knees on the tussled-sheets, looking into the viewer's eyes, hips thrust forward, the fingers of one hand diddling the vestigial penis at the top of her folds, and the other fingering one of her nipples. The feathered boa was draped around her neck and descending down her sides, showcasing, by not obscuring, any part of her voluptuous female body. Her head was arched a bit back, and there was a little "Can you handle this hot momma?" smile on her face. In the final drawing of this, the only color given would be a pink tint to the feathered boa.

Gould looked at her pose for a few moments and then picked up a thick gold choker collar, with a hook on the side for a dog leash to be attached, came over and put that around her neck.

"There. Perfect," he murmured. "A hint of 'walking the dog' fetish--that you are posing for your master."

After this drawing was finished, Gould slipped his shorts off, becoming naked, climbed up on the bed behind Pammy, and started showing her that, yes, he could handle that hot momma.

"Yes, baby, let the entertainment begin," Pammy murmured and then gave a little gasp, as Gould's right hand came around to brush Pammy's finger off her vestigial penis, for Gould to take up more intense, rough attention to that, and his left hand to cup her chin and pull her head back into his chest.

She writhed in his embrace as more and more of his hand became engaged in not only worrying her vestigial penis but also pushing in through the folds of her manufactured vagina, the fingers going deep and, eventually, lifting her pelvis up and then settling her ass channel back down on his upcurved erection. Holding her tight into his body, his hand buried itself in her snatch, going up to the wrist and fisting her while using his fist to pull her up and down on the cock he had sheathed up her ass.

Pammy, as she ineffectually struggled under his control, was calling out, "Yes, yes, baby, git it gititgitit. Fuck your Pammy," as Gould continued doing just that.

Standing just beyond the open door into the art studio to where he could see of their gyrations, but they couldn't see him, Luigi was watching this scene with disgust, distress, anger... and bubbling up jealousy and anger.

It wasn't until after Pammy, donning the yellow suit, proclaiming how well the gold choker collar went with the color of the suit, and had become Peter Drexall for the prance home, did Gould become aware that the gold choker collar had gone with Drexall.

No matter, he thought. The session had gone well and the photos would add interest to his collection. He'd be drawing the showgirl again and would retrieve the collar then.

* * * *

Hardesty groaned and, spent, rolled off Toby Drake, reached up and freed the young man's wrists, and then reached down and freed his ankles. He moved off the bed and rolled the spent condom off his cock. He managed a three-pointer into the trash basket, gathered up his toys, and went to the shower in his bathroom. As they usually did when they were doing it nasty and not doing it in some exotic area and position out in the living area, they had fucked in Hardesty's room. Toby kept his bedroom for clients or for the rare less-athletic couplings with his roommate.

It was Monday afternoon and they had both been consumed by frustration--Hardesty with how slow the forensics results were coming in, although a priority perform notice on the results of Johnson's taxi cab scrub had been levied. No judges could be found on Sunday to issue court orders on a DNA collection at Griffin Gould's studio, and it already was Monday afternoon and he still didn't have that in hand.

On Toby's part, he hadn't had an assignment over the weekend. At nearly twenty-six, he contemplated whether he was coming to an end of his high-demand prostitute life. He was scared stiff about what came after that and how his life would inevitably be changed. The worst part was that the guy Toby was trying to keep from hassling Hardesty on their living arrangements, the police deputy chief for internal affairs, Delong Black, had called him for servicing on Saturday under what essentially was a blackmail arrangement, and, without an assignment, Toby had had to knuckle under to that. He hadn't told Hardesty they were being blackmailed, and although Toby had put out the word to anyone with influence in the department above Black, nothing had borne fruit yet.

They both were plagued with tension neither did--or could--tell the other about. The extreme sex session they'd just had on Hardesty's bed released some of the tension, but none of the underlying problem.

Hardesty left the door to his bathroom open, and, exhausted from their athletic sex, Toby lay there and watched his roommate shower, dry himself off, pull on a pair of athletic shorts, and pad out of the room. When Hardesty was gone, stumbling toward the kitchen area, Toby rolled out of bed with a groan--another indication that he wasn't getting any younger at this--and went to his own bedroom and his own shower.

It was Hardesty's turn to make dinner, which he started on the telephone with a call to a nearby pizza parlor that would deliver and whose delivery guys the security guy on the desk downstairs recognized and didn't have to go to any hassle to accept pizza boxes from.

While they ate, they discussed what Hardesty could reveal about the progress--or lack of progress--with the Trans Murders case. Once more it was Toby who came to the rescue on something. Hardesty had found he had no way to get hold of Natalie to assure himself--and others--that she couldn't have been in Washington the previous Thursday to do in Johnson, the taxi driver who had assaulted and tried to kill her. Natalie had told him she'd lost her cellphone and she obviously hadn't found it and had already gotten service on it canceled. Nothing happened when he tried that number.

Toby had heard from Natalie, using the cellphone of the guy she was with. She claimed still to be in Chicago but would be back in Washington on Tuesday. She'd given Toby her client's number, and when Toby told Hardesty about the call, he'd gotten the number, called her, and, telling her why she'd want him to do it, set up a short contact between her and a cop chum of his in Chicago to verify she was there. The boyfriend backed up the claim she'd been there continuously through the time Johnson had been offed, and he had timed cellphone videos of sex with Natalie in a Chicago setting that backed all of that. With a laugh, Hardesty's Chicago cop friend agreed not to report any of this other than to provide a note in the file that he'd verified Natalie wasn't in Washington at the time of the crime.

While they were eating, Toby got a telephone call from the escort service that perked him up. This call came just as Hardesty was broaching a subject he had been avoiding.

"There's something we need to talk about, Toby," he said.

"Oh?"

"I may have to move out. I'm being pressured about not living in the district." He omitted that the real problem was that he was living with a male prostitute. "They are taking notice of that in the department."

"It may not be quite the issue you--" Toby started to say, deciding this was the time he'd have to admit he knew about Delong Black's e-mail and had already defused that, at least for now. But then his cellphone went off, he answered it, and as he talked, Hardesty could see that Toby increasingly liked what he was hearing.

"Good news?" Hardesty asked.

"Yes, I think so. Back in business." He didn't say more about his concern that he hadn't had a gig this past weekend. Weekends were normally his busiest time. He continued speaking. "I have a week's out-of-town gig, starting Wednesday, with a regular client," he said. "It's with Sam Shaffer, an agent for artists. One of his clients is working on selling a large collection to a high roller down in Florida. Shaffer wants to sweeten that deal, so he wants me to come down to Miami and take a boat trip with the two of them."

"Umm, another two for one, then," Hardesty said, only half listening to what Toby said. He was just happy to see Toby looking happy again.