Another Life (6 page)

* * *

“T
hat’s it?” I asked him. Knowing it wasn’t.
“Three more. Cross-confirmed.”
“And you think this one is mine because…?”
“You’re the pattern-master,” he said. “The feds have a billion bucks’ worth of computers, but they’re working with ten cents’ worth of data. They’ve got a lot of different names for what they do, but it all comes down to the same thing: Guessing for Dollars. That’s fine for proposal writing, but, in your world, it’s what suckers do with bookies. People come to you for only one reason: because you
know.
”
I stopped fencing, asked: “You have a chronology?”
“The one you saw was the third of the four. But we assume many others had preceded her.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Way too stylized. You think he was going to keep escalating?”
Pryce shrugged; guessing wasn’t his game, either.
“But there’s at least one you know about that you don’t have on tape.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s not talking,” I said, not guessing. “Was she paid off or…?”
“The other.”
“Got a body?”
He shook his head “no.”
“But enough of a spoor so that you know it was him, right?”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“And any evidence that
did
exist, your guy has the scratch to have it erased.”
“Given the known data, such a scenario meets the criteria for both validity and reliability,” he acknowledged. “But on paper, it
didn’t
happen.”
“This prince of yours, he knows about your ‘data’?” I asked.
Pryce gave me a blank look. He wasn’t confused; he was drawing a line.
Being me, I stepped over it. “A working girl’s gone. One you
don’t
have on tape, but you’re sure your guy had…contact with her, right? That means some pimp never got his merchandise back.”
“How do you know she wasn’t just some—?”
“How about we stop, okay? No way we’re talking about some underage runaway scooped off the street. You already said your guy was riding an escalator, and you don’t find girls who turn edge-tricks down on the sidewalk. You want one of those, that’s the penthouse—reservations-only territory.”
“You’re the expert; you tell me.”
“Okay. Those girls never work blind. They don’t go out every night, or even every week. Takes time for the marks to heal. Surgical repairs take even longer. So every rental brings mammoth money, but there’s a long turnaround time between them. A manager loses a girl like that, costs him a
lot
of cash, at both ends.”
He looked a question at me.
“Front-end investment. You have to set up contact points for clients to find you. Web sites are for dominas, not subs…at least not the kind that can command major bucks for a single session. You need all kinds of screening mechanisms to protect your merchandise.
Serious
security. You need a way to wash the cash. Accountants. Lawyers. Offshore men. All that money is spent to
make
money. An investment, understand?”
“So, if a trick
does
go too far, it’s the perfect blackmail scenario—is that what you’re saying? Because his identity would already have been verified, and—”
“Not this time,” I said, catching the wisp of surprise that flickered over his face. “In fact, your guy isn’t blackmail material at all. He’s got money, all right, but it’s so fucking
much
money that threatening him could get you very dead.”
He nodded at the back-alley logic: Anyone who did the kind of research you need to work a stable of edge-girls would know that some tricks are too high up to touch. That kind, they have a stable of their own—assassins with diplomatic immunity.
When I was sure he was with me, I asked: “So why not spend some of that money in front, eliminate all the back-and-forth?”
“I don’t under—”
“There’s places in L.A. where you can rent a Bentley, but that’s all about front. The rental places might call you ‘sir’ they might ass-kiss like a doorman at a Beverly Hills hotel…but they
know.
It’s in their eyes. They’ve got your number. If you were the real thing, why would you be renting?”
“You mean—?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know this ‘missing’ girl. So I don’t know who was running her. But I know their kind. And if the price was right…”
“Are you saying—?”
“Your record’s stuck in the same groove. You know as well as me that humans get sold all the time. They’re just a commodity, like wheat, or pork bellies. What lawyers call ‘fungible’ goods; one grain of wheat’s the same as another. But
some
humans are unique property.
“Even for sex, there’s a general market price, but it still varies, depending on the person
and
the packaging. A lap dance in a backstreet dive in Queens won’t cost you anything close to the same thing in some upscale Manhattan joint.
“Girls who turn lump tricks get used up quick. The harder and longer they get used, the less they’re worth. Baby-sellers know how quick the price drops for used goods—you think pimps are any different?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “I told you, this isn’t about money. Or law enforcement. This is very, very simple: the client wants his baby returned to him. We want to satisfy the client. That’s the place where you come in. The
only
place.”
I caught his meaning, and the warning it was wrapped in: If their precious prince had bought himself a human sacrifice, that wasn’t their problem. And I better not make it mine.
“What’s all this about ‘patterns,’ then?” I asked him. “What do you need me for?”
“Without the baby, the client appears to have stopped his…nocturnal activities.”
“So?”
“So we don’t believe we’ve come close to interviewing all the other women he may have…used. But we don’t know any places to look for them that we haven’t tried.”
“You think maybe one of the pain-for-pay girls set him up?”
“How would we know?” Pryce said, reasonably. “We found some of them by going back down the money trail. But that’s such a murky world that there
must
be others. And we were told there are women who do…this kind of thing for their own reasons. Not prostitutes, women who actually seek out such encounters.”
“Sure,” I said, putting a “who doesn’t know that?” look behind it.
“As I said, that world presents a rare barrier for us. Money will provide access, but not to the…depth we require, especially in the time allotted.”
I got it then.

* * *

T
he woman who opened the door for me was wearing a maid’s outfit. A costume, not a uniform—she wasn’t dressed for housework.
“Hi, Rejji,” I said.
“It
is
you,” the fantasy-dressed brunette squealed. “Those ‘security’ cameras—you can never be sure.”
“Shut up, you stupid little bitch,” a tall blonde whose severe black dress did nothing to de-emphasize her outrageous breasts snapped. She gave the maid a mild slap and pointed toward a corner of the living room. “
I
was sure, or he never would have gotten past that simpering little ‘concierge’ downstairs.”
As the brunette stood in the corner, hands clasped obediently behind her back, the blonde smiled at me. “You finally decide to come out of the closet yourself, Burke? Good timing. Rejji was due for a punishment tonight anyway.”
“When I do, you’ll be the first to know, Cyn,” I told her, playing off her long-standing joke—if that’s what it was—that I was hiding my true nature from myself.
“You’re
so
lucky,” she hissed at the brunette, who shivered her bottom in mock terror.
“Cyn…”
“Yeah, I know. Business. Sit down over there and tell us what you want.”

* * *

W
hen I was done talking, Cyn said, “I don’t think you’re looking for a risk-taker.” She glanced over at Rejji, who was sitting next to her on the loveseat. They were holding hands.
“That’s right,” Rejji said. “It’s all about the lines.”
I looked from one to the other, waiting for them to decide who should lay it out for me. On their Web site, Rejji spent a lot of time being “disciplined” by Cyn; that’s what their customers paid for. Cyn owned Rejji. They lived in a world you could look in on, provided your debit card had enough for the ticket. But all that would let you see was a small slice of the globe—like the tiny little tattoo on Rejji’s right hip, or the dog collar she wore on special occasions. The rest of it—the never-for-sale part—was that they loved each other. I didn’t know what they did when they were off camera; I didn’t know where the acting started or stopped. But I knew the love was unscripted.
Our accounts had been squared years ago; I was there to put myself back in their debt. There was never a question in my mind that they’d tell me whatever they knew. And not because the pendulum is always swinging, and they might need me again someday. That’s the way it is in Pryce’s world, but even he knew he couldn’t buy his way into this one.
“You know how it works,” Cyn began. “We don’t do stills—just our video library and some real-time. Pre-pays only. The client sends in the scene he wants, and we play it for him. We’ve got a lot of stuff stored. Usually, we can just click-click and they’re ‘watching’ what they asked for. Sometimes, over a thousand of them at the same time—like an afternoon matinee. Subscribers get a discount, and we pay a lot of money for the encryption.”
“They’re not all men,” Rejji put in, and caught a look from Cyn. “Well, they’re
not,
” she said, pouting. “One woman, she always asks for—”
“He’s not here about that,” Cyn said, more sharply than before. She turned to me, said, “Everyone in our business has a ‘line,’ okay? A client asks for…well, it doesn’t matter, just something you don’t want to do. So you say no. Sometimes, that’s it. Sometimes, they offer you more money. After all, we do it
for
money, so, the way people like them think…”
“I get it.”
“With me and Rejji, regulars know better—you don’t even
ask.
And for newbies, it’s right on our site: Just click the ‘Don’t Even Go There!’ banner and you get an ‘Out of Bounds’ list. Ignore that even
once,
you’re barred for life. But some stuff, well, it’s marginal, and we have to make a judgment call.”
I made a “like what?” gesture.
“Lots of clients want to see naughty-schoolgirl stuff. That’s okay, but if the dialogue goes wrong…”
“I know!” Rejji said. “Like that foul—”
“Shhh,” Cyn said, patting the other girl’s thigh tenderly. “He wanted Rejji to be a
little
schoolgirl,” she explained. “I mean, she’s never going to look like some ten-year-old, not built the way she is, but this client wanted her to
talk
like one. And I wasn’t supposed to be the headmistress of her school; I was supposed to be her nanny.”
“I know you didn’t just let that one—”
“If you’ve got more than a screen name—like say a credit card—it’s amazing what kind of information the feds can come up with,” Cyn said, solemnly. “Apparently, enough for a search warrant.”
I bowed slightly, said: “Beautiful. But I need to go darker than that one.”
They exchanged looks.
“You’re looking for a kid?” Rejji finally asked. “An
actual
kid?”
“It’s not that simple,” I told her. “Yeah, I’m looking. But not for pictures. Not for scenes. Not even for buyers. I’m following a trail. Starts with a guy who works the strolls. He’s not the kind of wannabe dom you run across in your business; he’s only interested in piece-of-meat merchandise.”
“Use and abuse?” Cyn asked.
“His use
is
abuse. But all we’ve got documented is verbal. He doesn’t need to role-play; he
is
what he wants to be. He pays; the girl does what she’s told. Every time he does his thing, he’s making a point.”
“Not fooling himself?” Cyn asked, making sure.
“Not even close. This isn’t the kind of guy who pays to spank a girl while she calls him her boss, or her ‘master,’ or whatever gets him off. The one I want, he’s right out front. With him, it wouldn’t be ‘You’re a bad girl,’ it would be ‘I pay you cash; you bend over and take it.’ No scenes, just payment for services.”
“That’s asking a lot,” Rejji said. “Most pro subs like it at some level. I mean, they may not like the
client,
but they get off on the scenes themselves. Spanking, that’s the comfort-zone end. But some of those girls, they’re pretty close to the other edge—RL.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Real Life,” she said. “Even if they’re being pimped, their boyfriends—or their girlfriends—have to be into the scene themselves. One girl we know, she broke up with the guy she was living with because he wouldn’t choke her. In her mind, that was supposed to be their special thing. She’d let a trick flog her for money, but asphyx sex, that’s not for strangers. You’ve got to
trust
to play that way.”
“Maybe. But anytime you let a stranger tie you up…”
“That’s right,” Rejji said. “That game, it’s
all
risk. If you’re going to trick, you never know. Not everyone follows the script. You remember Olivia?”
“Mistress Greta,” Cyn added, as if that would clear things up for me.
I shook my head.
“She did the whole Nazi thing,” Rejji explained. “You know: blond wig, black uniform, high leather boots, German accent.” She stifled a yawn with a very ladylike patting of her lips. “Had herself a complete dungeon setup, very expensive. Regular clientele, too. Like making an appointment for a facial.”
“And?” I asked, ignoring her word games.
“And she’s dead. Somebody—probably more than one—put her through hell before they finished her off.”
“You heard this?”
“We
saw
it,” Cyn told me. “On the Internet. Somebody posted the video, and made sure it got around. The URL’s gone now, but we figure it’s been downloaded plenty of times. Not even illegal to possess it; they only showed her taking it, not the finale. That makes it art. Probably could have sent it in to apply for an NEA grant.”
“No strangers; no exceptions,” Rejji said, schoolgirl-proud that she’d memorized the material.
“No
contact.
” Cyn pulled the leash even tighter. “We deal with strangers all the time, but never in the flesh. Rejji and I, we make little movies. We do it all: casting, directing, set design, lighting, sound. Now if
you
want to be the screenwriter
and
you’ve got the money to finance the production, we’ll consider it. But, no matter what, you never, ever get to meet the actors.”
“That’s
your
rule. But it’s not the—?”
“Of course not,” Cyn said. “There’s…levels in this business, same as any other. Standards, too.”
“You mean, like, security systems?”
“No,” she said, crisply. “I mean what I said:
standards.
Wait….”
She walked out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Rejji leaned over and licked my mouth.
Cyn came back in, looked at Rejji, said, “Your cheeks are red, bitch,” causing a deeper blush. “I’ll help you with that later.” Then she turned to me, said, “Even the phone-sex operations—and, trust me, you wouldn’t want to meet some of the girls
they
use—have guidelines. The classier ones, anyway.” She handed me a piece of paper, neatly typed:
The following scenarios are STRICTLY FORBIDDEN:
Violence or use of weapons
Rape fantasy
Beast work
Incest
Red or brown showers
Amputation or mutilation
“See what I mean?” she said as I glanced over the list. “That particular service is Gold Card or better. A girl gets caught breaking any of these rules, she’s gone, no matter what kind of earner she is. And a supervisor spot-checks every call.”
“I get it.”
“We don’t,” she said, a faint aura of accusation in her voice. “We know you’re hunting.” She turned to the still-blushing Rejji, said, “What? You think Burke came over here to play with you, brat?” She turned back to me. “What’s your problem? You don’t think you can trust us, why come at all?”
“You know better than that,” I told her. “I’m just feeling my way through this. I didn’t come to ask you for something; I came over to learn.”
“And did you?”
“I might have.”
“Which means…?”
“If you know a girl who fits a certain profile, I’d like to hear about it.”
“You said that funny,” Cyn said, tilting her head. My fault: sometimes I forget that her IQ is as outrageous as her chest.
“Hard-core sub,” I got specific. “Professional. No boundaries. The kind who’d let a trick do anything to her, even with a kid in the room—”
“Ugh!” Rejji.
“Shut up!” from Cyn, who was listening intently.
“—and might have access to people who could put together a snatch of that same kid.”
“Like a mobbed-up boyfriend?”
“Heavier than that,” I told them, measuring my words. “I’m talking about a girl with a client list that could include the kind of guy who could put together a military-type operation. A man willing to gamble big bucks, if he can play for much bigger ones.”
“So she’d have to be in on it herself,” Rejji said.
“At first,” Cyn said, “but maybe not in on anything, anymore.”
I nodded. You can recycle the script, but the ending never changes.
“Same number?” was all she asked.