The Case of the Lipstick Killer

Nikki Fontaine, Private Investigator

The Case of the Lipstick Killer

OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

February 2, 2024

My name is Nikki Fontaine. I just opened the first detective agency in Oakland bearing the name of a woman. Good for me. I'm five-eight and have fiery long red hair. I'm 36, but I have a figure that still turns heads. I have beautiful boobs, and my legs look great in four-inch spike heels. However, I'm still trying to figure out how to walk in them without falling on my face. Why do women torture themselves wearing these things?

I have four employees that are going to be the death of me.

There's Danny Hanson and Dooley Monroe, who I hired to handle my business's car repo side. Car repos produce a tidy income stream. They're both gay and are in a tumultuous relationship. It's not a problem as long as they leave their shit at home. They're both short, five-six and five-seven, so that in itself can open the door to issues with macho straight men.

Danny is a trained MMA fighter, so men who act like Neanderthals and pick on gay guys usually get their asses handed back to them on a platter by Danny if they mess with him. Dooley is an understated man of few words, but you still don't want to piss him off. He's an ex-Army Ranger sniper. He'll just go way off in the distance and take you out from there. His saying is, "I'm an Army Ranger Sniper, the last person you'll never see."

Danny has family in Southern California, but they disowned him when he came out of the closet. Dooley has a sister who is one of the few female Army Rangers. She decided to become a lifer and make the military her career. They only get to see each other occasionally because of her deployments.

Then there's Barton Metcalf, our in-house attorney. He has a little problem with cocaine, but he is a high-functioning addict. Barton is 38 but looks older. Cocaine is a bumpy road. He's handsome but not dashing, and clothes hang attractively on his frame. His thick head of auburn hair and chiseled jaw complement each other. He comes cheap, so I ignore his habit as long as it doesn't show up in the office. He has a big crush on me, but I don't reciprocate, and he seems to deal with it.

And I wouldn't want to forget Nora Landers, a stunning 25-year-old blonde lesbian bombshell who stands five foot seven, and that's without the spike heels. She has a perfect figure, with curves in all the right places, so you know she's all woman, not one of the stick figures with fake boobs that you see everywhere. Well, not so much in Oakland. You notice a lot of black women wearing spandex in Oakland. Some of them look stupendous and stop traffic in mid-block. Some of them should know that spandex is a privilege, not a right.

I never feel the need to have or be with a man. I'm not a lesbian, though I have a good reason to try to avoid women. Sometimes it's a gut-wrenching problem, especially when I keep getting a large erection every time Nora bends over to pick up one of the pens I keep accidentally leaving on the floor. She loves flirting with me, and I do my best to keep my hands to myself. But for some reason, I can't stop myself from dropping those damn pens on the floor.

You see, I stole $30 million from one of Chicago's oldest mob families, and they've been trying very hard to find me. Now, that's a problem.

Most men will do anything for that kind of money, even live their life as a woman.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

June 3, 2023

I was walking past Willis Tower, turned left onto W. Jackson Boulevard, and was smacked right in the face by The Hawk. For about the hundredth time, I wondered why the hell did I move here from Miami?

They call Chicago the Windy City, but they call the wind The Hawk. I almost wish

The Hawk was a bird of prey instead of the frigid wind blowing off of Lake Michigan. The wind that blows in from the lake is so cold that it freezes the muscles in your face. The muscles thaw out soon enough once you get yourself inside, but in the meantime, whenever you smile, the muscles spasm and the smile stays glued to your face. It's not so bad, as long as you don't mind looking like the Joker in a Batman comic book.

I need a warmer climate in my future. I just hope my future comes fast because once my employers find out about what I've done, I'll be walking around the bottom of Lake Michigan wearing cement shoes looking for my head.

I'm Vinnie De Luca, and I launder money for the Genna Crime Family. I've been working for the Genna family for eight years doing accounting work and finding creative ways to hide and launder their money. The Genna family is one of the original mob families in Chicago. They're like royalty, you might say.

I started out running numbers in my old neighborhood. Big Ed Genna saw promise in me because I was good with numbers. He paid for me to take all these accounting courses. Before I knew it, I was working with the entire family's books. They didn't need me to become a CPA or anything like that. I just needed to know how to keep track of their bottom line without fucking it up too much.

If Big Ed hadn't grabbed me and signed me up for those accounting courses, I probably would have eventually moved on and gone to a JC to get a degree. Then I would have taken one of those three-month courses to become a private investigator. I grew up reading Hardy Boys books and was always amazed at how they solved cases that the grown-ups couldn't figure out.

It got to the point where I was shuffling millions of dollars a month from one account to another. I was wiring money to so many offshore accounts that I lost count. Then they got smart and started having me convert their cash to cryptocurrency, like bitcoins. That's when I got the idea. Yeah, that idea. No one but me knew where everything was, how it got there, and how to move it around. Without me, they were little people lost in the land of giants.

So I got the bright idea of creating a separate account that only I knew about. If anyone came across it, I could explain what it was. As long as the Gennas' money was still there, they wouldn't suspect me of trying to steal it. I was slowly building up this phantom account. Slowly but surely.

Soon there was over a million dollars in this account. Then it was six million. I got to where I was throwing money into this account hand over fist. And still, no one had a clue. Their bottom line was growing by double digits even without counting what I was siphoning off.

One of the guys I dealt a lot with was Frank Romano, aka Frank The Knife. I always called him Frankie boy, which really irritated him, but I kept calling him that, anyway. I made sure to give him a little wink whenever I called him Frankie boy, which seemed to piss him off even more; but we were friends, so he never made a big deal of it.

He handled debt enforcement, meaning extortion, and breaking a few legs and fingers here and there when someone got too far behind on their payments or couldn't make one. Sometimes Frank would rough someone up just to make a point to the other debtors so they would think twice before skipping a payment or crying that they didn't have enough money to pay. That didn't cut it with Frank or the Gennas.

Frank was responsible for providing me with cash collections for the entire city. He'd come into my office about two times a week. Sometimes we'd go out to lunch at Monteverde's over on West Madison. The Gennas went there a lot, so all we had to do was say, "Put it on the account." It was a very nice way to live. We were treated like VIPs every time we went in there.

I can't complain. My life was good. I had a hot girlfriend, a 26-year-old brunette named Lucy, who wasn't afraid to take her clothes off anytime day or night. Oh, and she was my secretary, so I had what you would call open access to her candy store. And what a treat she was. People always wondered why I always had a smile on my face. Well, not everyone. Some of them knew the reason. One look at Lucy was all they needed. She was an exquisite piece of arm candy. When I wasn't out screwing around on her, I walked around proudly with her on my arm. That's how we do it in the Windy City. Deal with it; don't judge.

Frank and I were friends. We even got together sometimes and went out to a couple of bars and got so shitfaced that we'd have to call someone to give us a ride home. We could both be total goombahs.

But none of that mattered as long as Frank kept collecting the money, and I kept on hiding it. The Gennas loved us. That's why it's gonna piss them off so much when they find out that I was the one that betrayed them and skipped town with millions of their dollars.

It doesn't matter that it didn't mess up their bottom line. The Gennas would do whatever it took to find me and peel my skin off like a banana peel--and then set me on fire.

That didn't interest me one bit. I've carefully planned my escape from Shy Town to avoid having them peel my skin off and turn me into a human torch. There would be no coming back from what I was doing.

So today's the day. I still have a few nagging doubts about what I'm about to do. But if the Gennas taught me anything, it's to be smart and cunning. Little did they know I would use that to take a $30 million bite out of their asses. Even Frank The Knife wouldn't hesitate to take out his friend for doing something like that to his adopted family.

On the other hand, I like the idea of having $30 million in my account, not theirs. I doubt that the Genna family will end up in the poor house anytime soon. Crime will continue, and so will they. They'll still be living like kings long after I blow this place. They'll be trying like hell to find me and kill me, but they will always be living like kings. That's what I want, too.

I have been cautiously, over the last few months, been converting my bit coin account back into dollars to make for a smoother transition to make electronic deposits into banks.

And that's that. Once I push the enter button, there's no turning back. Bang.

That's $30 million was just successfully deposited into several offshore bank accounts under the names of different shell companies I've been creating. God bless America.

The only family I have left is my brother Bernardo. He might miss me when I'm gone, but I won't miss him. He's a total idiot and never returns any of the money I've lent him. I did a little math, weighed the pros and cons, and determined he's just not fucking worth it.

That should last me for a while if I'm not too extravagant--no villas in the South of France, and no Bugatti Veyron supercars. But I would like a Tesla Roadster. I would love to have the ability to go from zero to sixty in under two seconds and blow through a quarter-mile in under nine seconds. Let's see the Veyron match that.

Just one more thing I need to do so I can blow this iceberg.

OLEG SOLOKOFF'S APARTMENT, DOWNTOWN CHICAGO

June 6, 2023

"Have you got the money?"

"Yes, I have it here in my briefcase. I heard that you do impeccable work," I stated.

"I haven't had any complaints so far. So what is it that you need?"

"I need the works. I need to disappear. I don't want anyone finding me once I leave this town. I want a passport, passport card, Social Security card, state-issued driver's license, and birth certificate."

"That shouldn't be a problem. When do you--"

"Let me finish," I interjected. "I'm not done. I'm going to need two new identities. I need one with me as I look now, but with a new name. Then I want one--do you know how to use Photoshop?"

"What do you think? That's part of what I do," replied Oleg.

"Great. Then I want you to create another full set of documents showing me with my eyebrows trimmed nice and neat, no mustache, shorter hair, and glasses. I want to look like a different person, with another name than the first one. Use the name Charles Poloma for the first set of documents and Roland Munson for the one with glasses.

"Is this something you can do?"

"Sure, I can do all of that. You realize it's not gonna be cheap."

"I assumed as much, Oleg. How soon can I get all of this?"

"The soonest I can get all of this done is about three days. I'll have to stop what I'm doing and start this to get it done that quickly. But if you're willing to pay the expedited fee, I can make it happen."

"Here. This should take care of everything."

I handed Oleg the briefcase, already opened, displaying stacks of Benjamins.

Oleg surveyed the rows of hundred-dollar bills and smiled.

"Yeah, this will do just fine. I'll see you in three days."

I nodded and headed for the door.

O'HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

June 10, 5:15 p.m.

Once I board that flight to Rome, I'm gone. No one will ever find me. They won't know what hit them. Well, they'll probably figure it out fairly soon, but by then, I'll be a ghost, a cloud of smoke in the wind.

"Lufthansa Flight 247 to Rome, Italy, now boarding," said the pleasant female voice over the PA system.

I worked hard for this, and I'm not going to look back or feel guilty for one second. Of course, if my boss ever finds me, I won't be looking anywhere--ever again.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. Mob guys are all just a bunch of goombahs and guidos. They all were too stupid to see what I was doing right under their noses. None of this would be happening if they would have paid me what I was worth. I provided them a valuable service. Without me, they'd be spending millions in taxes, and most of them would be prosecuted under the RICO statute and be in prison. I've been their keepout-of-jail card, goddammit. That's worth something. I've extracted my bonus, and it's a drop in the bucket compared to what I've saved them in taxes and prison time.

Charles Poloma took his seat in the first-class cabin, and he ordered a phenomenal Dalmore King Alexander II six-cask finished single-malt scotch.

Now, this is living. I could get used to this. Wait. I will get used to this.

Charles sat back in his seat and smiled, knowing that first class would be his new way of life.

LEONARDO DA VINCI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

ROME, ITALY

June 11, 12:40 p.m.

After a total flight of thirteen and a half hours, including a little over an hour layover in Frankfort, Germany, Charles Poloma walked off Lufthansa Flight 247 and disappeared in Rome forever. He just became a ghost for anyone trying to trace his or my whereabouts.

Good-bye. Nice knowing you, Mr. Poloma.

I walked into the men's room and pulled out a five-bladed Gillette razor and trimming scissors.

In 15 minutes, my mustache was gone. I'll miss my mustache. It has been my trademark for the last 20 years. Then I trimmed my bushy eyebrows, donned my Clark Kent glasses, and walked out of the restroom as Roland Munson.

The voice coming over the PA system was pleasant enough, even though she sounded a little uptight. Maybe she was coming to the end of her shift. Maybe her husband isn't paying enough attention to her. Not my problem. Come on, baby, say the magic words.

"Alitalia Flight No. 1258 for Mauritius now boarding at Gate B24."

That's what I was waiting for. Eleven more hours and I'm home free. Well, hopefully.

It wasn't Charles Poloma who boarded the Alitalia flight. And it certainly wasn't Vinnie De Luca who boarded the flight. Roland Munson looked like a businessman when he boarded Alitalia Flight No. 1258 at Gate B24 headed for the beautiful and distant island of Mauritius.

DESCENDING INTO SIR SEEWOOSAGAR RAMGOOLAM

INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MAURITIUS

June 12, 3:30 a.m. Local Time

Goddamn, that was a long flight. Thank God for alcohol. The limo I ordered better be here waiting for me.

Like Charles Poloma, Roland Munson would have a very short lifespan, just a matter of days.

Mauritius is an island paradise in the Indian Ocean off the coast of Madagascar, another island. Its palm tree-lined white sand beaches are as beautiful as any in the world. It is a vacation destination to thousands of tourists each year and has a lucrative financial center, including popular offshore banks.

Roland Munson would only have a few days to take in the beauty this island has to offer. This trip wasn't a vacation; it was a business trip. Before leaving, he would procure a whole new set of identity documents to start a new life far from Chicago and the men that will want him dead once they discover he fled town with a lot of their money.

The Alitalia Airbus A330-200 made a perfectly smooth landing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Alitalia Airlines, we'd like to welcome you to Mauritius. We would like to thank you for choosing Alitalia. Enjoy your stay."

As I finished my glass of scotch, I grabbed my one carry-on bag and strolled off the jet like someone without a care in the world. When I walked over to pick up my large suitcase that I had checked in at the beginning of the day, it was passing right in front of me on the baggage carousel. Perfect, I thought, as I snatched it from the carousel and headed for my awaiting limo.

I just hope the rest of my life is half as smooth as that landing.

I walked out front to find a limo driver holding a sign with Roland Munson written on it, waiting to take him to the hotel. In this new life, a mere taxicab just wouldn't do.

SHANGRI-LA RESORT & SPA, MAURITIUS

June 12, 4:50 a.m.

"Thank you," I said as I handed the bellman a tip for bringing my two pieces of luggage into my third-floor room from the limo. I paid extra for early access to the room. I had booked the room for several weeks, so they were flexible on things like check-in and check-out times.

I didn't bring more luggage because I plan on picking up a whole new wardrobe after recovering from my surgery. I brought a few things for the new me until I recover and do some serious shopping.

This should do. It seems like a sweet deal for a thousand a night. Maybe later I'll go for a nice walk on the beach. I won't be doing much of that after my surgery.

June 13, 11:25 a.m.

I sat at one of the bars inside the hotel, sipping on a Mai Tai, keeping my eye out for a man about my age and body type who looked enough like me that he could pull off using my Roland Munson passport to catch a charter flight from Mauritius to Germany.

After several hours of nursing one Mai Tai after another, I found the perfect person for my plan.

"Excuse me," I said politely as I walked up to the man sitting alone at a table drinking a cocktail.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" asked the man.

"Please bear with me for a second. I'm not a weirdo. I have a business proposition for you."

"Really? Okay. I'm listening," replied the gentleman.

"Firstly, are you here on vacation or business?"

"Oh, I'm here on vacation with my wife. We've been here for a week, but we're heading out tomorrow."

"That's no problem. Where are you headed from here?"

"Back to Baltimore in the states. Then I have another week until I'm due back to work."

"Wow. That works perfectly."

"So, what's your proposal, if you don't mind me asking?"

"How would you and your wife like spending a few days in Bonn, Germany, all expenses paid, plus a bonus?" I asked.

"You're kidding. Why would you pay for us to go to Germany?"

"I have my reasons."

"What else do I need to know?" asked the man.

"I will pay to fly you and your wife to Bonn on a private charter jet. The only catch is that you have to travel using my passport. Your wife can use hers--that's okay--but you must use mine."

"Is this something illegal?"

"No, not at all. You see, I'm in the middle of a bitter divorce, and I just don't want my wife to be able to find me. It might be a couple of things, but it's not illegal, I assure you."

"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure we--"