In the Shadow of Angels Page 3

  He was barely able to eke out a living on what he made from the data searches and extremely rare stakeouts. He was forced to live in a squalid apartment building that was home almost exclusively to meth heads and prostitutes. He hated that hellhole so much that he rarely went home. He opted to spend most nights in his van, and that was back when it was a simple 90s era panel van with absolutely no frills to speak of. There was no Ferrari nor butler.

  That all changed when he met Jezebel Anders.

  Theirs was a very tumultuous but symbiotic relationship. It started about a year ago when Jezebel approached him with a new twist on an old classic. She wanted him to photograph her having sex with someone. He declined at first, citing the fact that he didn’t want to be a pornographer. Yet when she elaborated, he grudgingly accepted. She was going to be having sex with someone very wealthy and then asking him for a cash donation in exchange for her silence. Blackmail. He hadn’t agreed immediately, of course, but when she told him that she would pay him $1000 for one night’s work, he could hardly resist. That was better than he was making in a week of mundane data research.

  She took the gentleman, and never before had that word been so inappropriately attributed, to The Place. She even made it easy for Edward by telling the mark she wanted to leave the blinds open so she could look at the stars while he nailed her. By that point, of course, she already teased him with her body enough that he was willing to do just about anything, so he readily accepted. The whole process took only about an hour. Then about a week later, Jezebel asked him for the memory card with the illicit photos on it. She took it to her mark and asked for money. The next morning, Edward found a plain manila envelope slid under the door of his office. Inside it was $1,000 in cash. It was the easiest money he ever made. He secretly kept backups of the photos, just in case.

  Over the next year, Jezebel and Edward worked out a solid system. They were selling back the photos to most of the marks, but when the circumstances seemed right, as was often the case with politicians or others in the public eye, they would ask for a monthly payment. Edward was able to quadruple his income from this and it was far less work. Since his was mostly a cash business, it was easy enough to insert names and places into his books to avoid scrutiny from the police and since he was still only making about $100,000 a year, he was well off the radar of the IRS as well.

  The first thing Edward did with his newfound wealth was upgrade to the new transit van. It was still short on frills, having paneled sides and an open back with no carpeting or seats, but he bought one with some shelving and cubbies to hold the equipment he used to ply his trade. The one feature of his new van that was not stock was a feature to house the memory cards containing the just in case images. He had the factory install a 1 cubic foot fireproof safe in the back, welded directly to the frame of the van on the driver’s side, just behind the seat. More of a lockbox than a safe, since it operated with a key instead of a combination, Edward felt much safer with the images in his van than left alone at his office for hours or days at a time. If someone was going to get at those pictures, they were either doing so with a cutting torch or with his keys - which would be over his dead body.

  He also upgraded his apartment, but it seemed he was there so rarely that he didn’t even notice. There was less noise late at night when he actually was home. There were no transients sleeping in the halls or addicts strung out and looking for a fix at all hours, but aside from that, he noticed little difference between the new one and the old one.

  His equipment also received a major upgrade. His new camera was his pride and joy. With the camera and specialized lenses, he found that he didn’t really need Jezebel at all. If he just showed up at O’Halligan’s on a Saturday night, he could usually find someone doing something they ought not be doing. Then he would follow them to The Place to get some pictures. They always went to The Place. If they were wealthy enough, he would approach them later: I was doing surveillance of someone in an infidelity case when I happened upon you having sex with a prostitute. Would you care to buy the photos for $1000? Would be the gist of the conversation he would have with them. Most agreed. Some didn’t. Either way, he would give them the photos and call it a day. Of course, he always kept copies, just in case. But he hated actually approaching the people. It just seemed so dirty.

  That was why it was still easier with Jezebel. Edward hated the actual blackmail portion of what he did, but that was where the money was. Jezebel, on the other hand, seemed to love it. He worked with her whenever he had the opportunity. However, she recently jested that if the shit hit the fan, she would come off as blameless. She was right, of course. Edward was the one outside the hotel snapping photos and the photos were what was being exchanged for cash. All she would have to do is claim that she didn’t know anything about it and this whole thing would come crumbling down around him. Since she said it in jest, it seemed better to ignore it than to think about it. So, that is what he did.

  When she jumped into his van that Saturday night, he simply turned to her and asked, “Anything good?”

  “No.” She replied. “Devin Bryant. I think I can get him to give up $500 for an abortion, but not much more. His wife already knows and he doesn’t seem to want anything more to do with me.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Is the pregnancy a scam?”

  “Does it matter?”

  After an awkward silence, Jezebel got to why she was in his van. “So, do you mind taking a couple pictures, just in case?”

  “Eh. Might as well, I’m coming up bust here tonight anyway.”

  Jezebel got into her own car and Edward followed her to The Place. No one seemed to see as his Ford Transit Connect van turned into the lot just behind her Fiero. They never did. If it were his old panel van it would have attracted attention, but this one just looked like a delivery van or a caterer. It went unnoticed. People really only see what they want to see sometimes. Just like the acronym currently on the side of his van, which said CAUGHT - Collectible Ashwood Unique Gifts & Hidden Treasures, even the most blatant signs are ignored. Especially at The Place, which has a reputation that nothing is ever seen or heard there. The reality is that much is seen and heard, indeed, even recorded and photographed, but enough money can buy silence.

  Chapter 3

  The Place is the current name of a very sleazy hotel. It is actually called The Palace, but the light for the first a has been burnt out as long as the sign has been hanging. If you told anyone in Ashwood that you were going to The Palace, they wouldn’t know what you were talking about. Everyone called it The Place. They also didn’t actually refer to themselves as a hotel. The sign out front simply read, Clean, convenient hourly room rentals. Or it had at one time. Now, what it actually said was, C ean conv ien h ly ro m rent ls. It had been owned by half a dozen different people over the last decade and each one brought with it a new name. Prior to being called The Place, it was called a number of things, a few of which were Classy Castle, The Paradise Club and Devin’s personal favorite, Flop, Drop & Roll. Invariably, the owners would be arrested for something like drugs, prostitution, money laundering, or tax evasion and it would change hands again. It was the type of place no one would admit to going, yet it always managed to stay in business. Probably because what it did have was a cash only policy and some very lax rules about checking IDs: They didn’t. If you looked at the guest registry, you would see an endless string of John Smiths, with only an occasional celebrity or fictional character mixed in for variety.

  It was the type of place where no one ever saw or heard anything and the more they actually did see and hear, the less they remembered seeing and hearing. If you happened to pass another person coming into or out of The Place, you would both stare at the ground as you passed. Later, you would both deny seeing each other there to the grave. Everyone who stayed there had something to lose and were not about to admit to being there. A woman was once stabbed there next to the (now perpetually empty) pool and died before help could arrive. Despit
e there being at least six other rooms occupied at the time, and no one slept at an hourly flop house, no one responded to her screams for help. Not only that, but when police arrived to question potential witnesses, only a couple of the rooms still had occupants. Not one of them saw the woman or her assailant, or heard anything unusual.

  It was a two-story affair of the type that was popular in the sixties. It was built in the shape of a great ‘L’. All of the rooms had exterior doors that faced the pool. There was a black, five-foot, wrought iron fence separating the pool from the rooms and then wrapping around to separate the parking area. The only way in or out was through a little gate by the parking lot that may well have been there to keep things in, instead of out. The paint was red in color at one point, but was since painted over in a much more neutral beige. The beige was peeling back in huge chunks along the front, exposing the faded red in blotches. The overall effect was what one would imagine flesh would look like if acid was poured on it, slowly melting away to show the muscle beneath. It was hard to imagine anyone being in the mood in a place like this, but that was the only thing that kept them in business.

  Devin saw Jez standing near the gate to the rooms as he pulled up. She waved to him, but didn’t approach. It was customary for the gentleman to secure the accommodations in this sort of place. The check in process went quickly. Devin handed the clerk $100, signed the registry as Leonardo Dicaprio and got his key. Room 213.

  Devin made his way to the gate and let Jez through.

  “I don’t understand why we had to meet here.” He said.

  “It’s our last date. I wanted it to be special.” Jez returned, jokingly.

  “I told you, Jez, I can’t see you anymore.”

  Jez took a couple of quick steps to get ahead of Devin before they got to the stairs. She walked up slowly, taking exaggerated steps so that her partially exposed ass would bounce in front of him. As they walked, she stopped quickly a couple of times, forcing him to run into her. She was pulling out all the stops tonight.

  “I know,” she said, “but we needed somewhere private.”

  Theirs was the third door on the second floor landing. They reached it quickly, despite having to step carefully around the weatherworn and cracked concrete of the second floor walkway. Devin unlocked it and let them in. Immediately, Jez started to unzip her dress.

  “Now we can play.” She said.

  “Come on, Jez, I told you I can’t have sex with you anymore,” Devin said. “Can we please just talk about the pregnancy?”

  “We’ll get to that.” She replied, slowly sliding off her dress and throwing it on the floor between them. “But you already brought me to The Place, it seems like your wife is going to think you did whether you did or not. You might as well …”

  She was trying so hard. She seemed so desperate. Devin could hardly believe that he fell for her before.

  “It’s not about my wife knowing, Jez. It’s about me not wanting to. I don’t want to lie to her anymore. I just want things to go back to normal.”

  “Well, we won’t have sex then.” Jez said, making her way slowly to where Devin was standing, “We’ll just play a little,” she added, reaching down to his crotch.

  In his mind, he told her to stop. In his mind, he protested as she started unzipping his pants. In his mind, he pushed her away as she slowly started to kneel before him. In reality, that first touch to his crotch shut off the part of his brain capable of launching a protest. By the time he knew what was happening, or so he told himself, she was using her mouth like she practiced with the cherry at the bar. Devin thought, well shit. She’s already sucking me off, I might as well let her finish. I don’t think Beth would give me partial credit.

  Finish she did. A messy explosion that got all over her and soiled the dress which she left on the floor between them.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad.” She said, as she grabbed her dress and went to the bathroom to wipe herself off.

  Back in the moment, Devin instantly regretted not stopping her. Although he could scarcely remember how it happened in the first place.

  “Can we talk about the pregnancy now?” Devin questioned.

  Jez appeared at the bathroom door a moment later. “That? Oh, just give me five-hundred dollars for the abortion and we’ll call it even.”

  “But why did we have to come here and…”

  Jez cut him off. “Why do any of us do anything?” She asked. “I just wanted to play one last time.”

  “God damn it, Jez! This is my life you’re fucking with here.”

  “Easy. I’m not going to tell anyone. I mean it. Just give me the money and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Can I get that in writing?”

  Jez laughed. “Well if you really want to write down that you gave me five-hundred bucks, fucked me, then made me promise not to tell, I’ll sure sign it for you!”

  That was just like Jez, always making sure she came away with something to hold over you.

  “Seriously, Jez, we had a good time, but I just need it to be over. If you need any more legal advice, just call me. But this,” Devin motioned to the room, “this has to stop. I have to stop seeing you.”

  “I know, honey,” she replied, as patronizingly as possible, “I wasn’t fucking around. I just need the cash and I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Alright, then,” Devin said, now going through his wallet, “I’ve got about six-hundred in my wallet. It’s yours.”

  Jez emerged from the bathroom. Her face was cleaned up and her dress was back in place. She walked up to Devin and grabbed the money from his hand. She leaned in close and kissed him full on the mouth. Then she moved her head back and started sucking on his ear. She whispered softly, “If you ever leave her, call me. It’s nice to fuck someone you’re not ashamed of sometimes.”

  As Jez made her way to the door, all Devin could think about was how right she was. It is nice to fuck someone you’re not ashamed of sometimes. He sincerely hoped that he would never see her again.

  Devin made his way into the bathroom to clean himself up and make sure that he hadn’t left any evidence on his pants. Before he had a chance to look in the mirror, he heard a scream from outside. It sounded like Jez. He fought the urge to ignore the sound for perhaps a minute, but ultimately found the scream followed by silence too eerie to ignore. He made his way to the door.

  Devin looked toward the stairs, but didn’t see Jez. He did see what looked like one of her come-fuck-me heels on the landing. He walked up to it, curious. The heel was buried in one of the many cracks in the concrete and snapped in half very near the base. Most of the ‘ladies’ that came to The Place wore come-fuck-me heels. Was this Jez’s? He picked it up trying to remember if she had been wearing black shoes. He couldn’t remember, but if her shoe was here, where was she?

  Devin’s mind started to piece it together. Her foot was stuck in the landing and she tripped. But where? Did she fall over the railing?

  Devin approached the railing cautiously. Looking down, he saw Jez. She was in a heap, leaning against the wrought-iron fence separating the first floor landing from the pool. Instinctively, he ran down the stairs to see if she was all right.

  He reached her in seconds. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing behind them.

  “Jez. Jez!” He screamed as he tilted her head to look in her eyes. As he moved her head, he knew there was no hope. There was no resistance at all. Her neck was broken.

  How? Her head wasn’t even on the ground. It looked almost like she was sitting and leaning against the fence. The fall was only ten feet. How did she break her neck if she didn’t land headfirst? Wouldn’t you land headfirst if you tripped over a railing? His mind raced through dozens of scenarios that couldn’t possibly have worked. Then he hit on one that could have. The only one that could have. She must have tripped over the railing, but her neck hit the wrought-iron fence on the way down. Her body kept going on one side, with her head on the other. Then a snap. The weight of her b
ody pulled her head back to this side. That has to be a million to one shot, he thought, but what else could have happened?

  He realized he had wasted precious seconds trying to piece it together. He ran back up the stairs to his room and dialed 911.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The female voice answered quickly.

  In that moment, a number of things occurred to Devin, which led to a single revelation: I am so fucked.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The female voice repeated.

  Devin steeled himself the same way he did before addressing a jury and when he spoke, it was with a calm and convincing voice, “I’m sorry, my friend is staying in room eleven and I thought you had to dial a 9 before the room number.”

  “Do you need help?” The female voice questioned.

  Devin laughed as genuinely as he could. “No, no. I’m sorry for the confusion.”

  “Okay,” the female voice said, seemingly satisfied. “Please call back if you need assistance.”

  Devin hung up the phone, his mind now more slowly taking stock of his situation. Jez was obviously dead. Her fall was, by his own estimation, a million to one shot. The only evidence of a fall was the broken heel. The shoe, which he already carried from the cracked sidewalk to her body and even back to his room to place the 911 call. Jez was pregnant, probably with his child and even if not, she was covered in his semen. He moved the body. At the bar, he said he was going to kill her … meant as a joke between himself and Brent, but the bartender had no way of knowing that. If the police examined her body, there was no way he wouldn’t be convicted of murder.

  The truth didn’t matter here. The evidence did. There was no way they were going to believe she tripped. Even if he were to put the shoe back on the landing, the sheer odds of her falling in exactly that way made it unbelievable. Plus, why were his prints all over the shoe if not to place it to make it appear to be an accident? If he wiped off the prints, it would be the same. Why weren’t her prints on the shoe unless someone wiped them off to stage an accident? No. The police would never believe she tripped over the railing. Murder conviction for sure. Probably first degree.