Chapter 8 WPV
I found myself standing outside the Maclay estate rather early the next morning. Thoughts of the blonde had plagued me throughout the night; her radiant smile haunting my dreams and driving me out of bed at an ungodly hour. In a handful of days, she somehow managed to purchase real estate in my state of unconsciousness. I should have denied the job as soon as she told me her name. Nothing good ever came from falling for your client.
I must have readjusted my tie several times, making sure it sat perfectly against my chest before I knocked on the luminous door. Just like every time prior, Buffy answered punctually, a radiating smile plastered on her face as she swung the door open in greeting. Without waiting for an invite, I stepped over the threshold, pulling my fedora off in the process, brushing off the snow that had accumulated.
“Buffy,” I said as I nodded my head at her, “how’s your morning going?”
“Quite well, Miss Rosenberg, thank you for asking,” she replied politely as she helped me out of my overcoat. “How about yourself?”
I debated about telling her the truth. Something about the petite blonde made me feel as if I could confide in her. I opened my mouth to tell her of my predicament but snapped it shut at the last moment. Instead, I copied her sentiment. “Quite well.”
This seemed to appease her as she shot me a quick smile before gesturing to the formal living room with a broad sweep of her hand. Wordlessly I followed behind her. As we reached the doublewide, arched doorframe, Buffy cleared her throat slightly as to not startle Tara-Rose who was slumbering by the fireplace. She was still in her sleep attire and her face was bare of all that make-up crap.
“Miss. Tara-Rose, Detective Rosenberg is here.”
She opened her eyes slowly, her eyelash rising like velvet theater curtains, making me weak in my knees. As our eyes lock, she relaxed the fastener on her lips and smiled in my direction. A new sense of dread suddenly bestowed upon me as I took in her features: pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended. I felt myself falling. This woman before me, the one who had the audacity to be beautiful even on days when everything around her was ugly had knocked me to the ground and I was sure my elbows had scars showing the tall-tale sign of me hitting hard.
I did my best to clear my throat and push away my desire. Smiling back at her, I stepped further into the room. “I’m sorry for my earliness; I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I said apologetically, “I can come back a little later if I am.”
“Nonsense,” she replied as she waved me off. “Come sit with me by the fire.”
Obediently, I sat down on the loveseat adjacent to her. We sat quietly for several moments until the sound of her shifting her position on the settee, her feet coming up to rest alongside her, penetrated the air. As she repositioned her legs, her night dress rose up her thigh and I got a full eyes view of silky smooth flesh.
Painstakingly, I tore my eyes away from her luscious gams, deciding that we sat in silence long enough. “Tara-Rose, I was planning on going to La Beau today to speak with your employees. Is there anyone in particular you can think of that I should speak with? Anyone who might be able to help with the investigation.”
Lazily, she tore her eyes away from the fire to look at me, her eyelids heavy, indicating that she had been on the verge of falling back to sleep. She smiled at me apologetically, as if she had forgotten I was there. “You should speak with our foreman, Ethan Rayne.” She said calmly as she traced her finger over the peach silk, toying with the fabric. “He’s been with us since my father first started the company and knows everything that goes on inside the factory.”
“Is he in charge of all the workers?” I ask as I make a mental note to speak with the foreman.
“Just the assembly line,” she replied as she shifted her position once more, swinging her feet to the floor gracefully as she stood up from the couch. “My father and I oversaw sales and the marketing team.”
I watch her in complete rapture as she slinked into her bedjacket, the light pink complementing her complexion. Tying the sash loosely around her waist, she walked toward an oak, barley twist buffet and pulled one of the drawers open, my eyes following her every movement. Before I had the chance to ask her what it was she was looking for, Tara closed the drawer and turned back toward the couches.
Sitting down on the unoccupied cushion next to me, she reached for my hand. Silently, she rotated my wrist and placed an object into my palm.
“So you can come and go from the factory as you please,” she indicated, her fingers curling my own over a cool piece of metal.
My gaze flickered from her twinkling blue eyes down to our entwined hands and then back up again. My skin tingled from where she clasped it, a burning prickle ebbing into my flesh, contrasting starkly against the metal key resting in my palm. She held on to my hand longer than what was considered socially acceptable but I wasn’t complaining; I wanted her touch on me. All over me.
“Willow,” my name comes out of her mouth like a stuttering soliloquy. Almost as if she’s been practicing how to master the syllables of my name in the dark. Perfecting it in the solitude of her room.
My heart clenched. I have never heard my name sound so appealing.
“I didn’t think I would ever learn your real name,” she finally said, whispering delicately as her thumb traced circles on the back of my hand.
“I didn’t think I’d ever tell you,” I replied honestly as I maintained eye contact, unwilling to look down at our hands and give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her touch was affecting me.
“Why did you then?” Her tone has become husky, her penetrating gaze probing a quick response.
“I guess I got tired.”
“Tired of what?” Tara-Rose asked as she anchored her attention on my lap where our hands lay clasped together.
I feel myself shifting, my body moving closer to hers as our knees lightly brush. “Hiding…” My tongue instantly freezes in my mouth as her lashes swept up; her teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. It wasn’t until I felt a burning sensation in my chest did I realize that I had been holding my breath. Shakily, I exhaled only to gasp for air once more when she leaned closer.
“You don’t ever have to hide from me,” she said softly as her unpainted lips ever so slightly grazed my jaw; her hot breath tickling my ear as she spoke, “Willow. “
As a shiver ran down my spine, her words invoking a stampede in my chest, a loud rapping on the doorframe engulfed the living room. Our eyes diverted as we sprung apart, our hands unclasping instantly as dueling blushes crept up our necks. Sheepishly, I looked over my shoulder to see Buffy standing in the middle of the doorway, a cheeky smile on her lips.
“Miss. Tara-Rose, breakfast is ready,” she replied professionally. “Detective, will you be eating with Miss. Tara-Rose?”
I chanced a look out of the corner of my eye at Tara-Rose, noticing that she was staring off at the fireplace, refusing to make eye contact with Buffy. Her embarrassment was evident in her posture and the way she held her hand against her face.
“No, I don’t think I will be,” I replied respectfully as I stood up from the couch, straightening out my tie in the process. “But if Donald’s here, I’d like to speak with him.”
“I’m afraid to inform you that Mr. Donald left shortly before your arrival to go see his doctor.”
“Doctor?” Tara asked, her attention pulled from the fireplace to stare questioningly at the maid. “Is he alright?”
“He’s fine Miss. Tara-Rose.” Buffy interjected quickly as she shot her boss a reassuring smile. “The poor boy broke a few fingers playing rugby. I phoned Dr. Giles last night. He wanted Mr. Donald to come to his office first thing in the morning to be splinted.”
I bit the inside of my lip at the mention of my God Father’s name. I’ve heard it now twice in as many days and each time a feeling of resentment bore deep into my heart. Not wanting to dwell on the subject I move away from the couch, from Tara-Rose and approached the doorway to the foyer.
“Is Alexander here?” I ask as I step in front of Buffy.
“In the kitchen,” she said as she sidestepped to allow me to pass.
Without looking back, I exit the formal living room. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I caught sight of Liam sitting at the breakfast nook with his head bowed, Alexander hunched over him menacingly; one hand poised on the back of the chair while the other rested flat on the table. Clearing my throat, I entered the room, unsurprised when Alexander’s glowering eyes traveled to mine.
“Alexander, I would like to speak with you,” I state matter-of-factly as I stood my ground in front of him. “We can speak while driving to La Beau Cosmetics.”
I didn’t give him an opportunity to argue as I spun on my heels and exited the room, walking briskly to the hall closet where Buffy had stowed my overcoat.
To my dismay, the ride to La Beau ended up being uneventful. Alexander proved to be more cooperative then I had originally anticipated. He came clean almost instantly about his short lived tryst with his former boss’s daughter. Stating to me that they were nothing more than very close friends and he would do anything to protect her. His tone left nothing to be deciphered. The veiled threat came across loud and clear.
My visit to the factory was no different. Ethan Rayne, a tall wisp of a man with an inferiority complex begrudgingly showed me around the compound. To my surprise he left nothing out. We stopped at every office and spoke with every employee, sometimes twice. Gruff, his patience wearing thin from having been away from the assembly line for the better part of the day, he finally showed me to Mr. Maclay’s office, our last stop.
Once inside the office, I waved off the foreman, indicating I no longer needed his assistance. As soon as he departed, I closed myself inside of the room, deeply inhaling the scent of stale perfume and cedar. Wrinkling up my nose at the odor, I marched over to the desk positioned strategically in the center of the room.
Laid bare on the polish wood was a calendar with shaky handwritten appointments scheduled in. I briefly scanned the dates; nothing of importance popping out until I got to the day before Mr. Maclay’s death. There, in scribbled cursive penmanship, a six o’clock appointment at Wallabout Bay. Ripping the sheet free from the calendar, I shoved the paper into my pocket.
Rifling through the rest of his desk, I came across a dossier tucked under a pile of voicemail receipts. Pulling the folder free, I flipped it open to find an ill-conceived sketch of a building. The name Best Western International, Inc., printed in big letters over the drawing. Attached was a voided check for the sum of twenty three thousand dollars, Mr. Maclay’s signature scribbled out on the bottom right hand side and the name of the intended recipient left blank. Intrigued, I browsed through the booklet, quickly realizing that someone had offered a business investment opportunity to Mr. Maclay which he had apparently backed out of. By what I was able to decipher, if Mr. Maclay had gone through with this deal, he stood to make millions, or potentially lose everything.
Collecting the dossier as potential evidence, I took one last look around the room before exiting. Once outside, I shot Alexander a look informing him I wasn’t in the mood to hear his voice. Climbing into the backseat of the limo I barked out the next address and tell him to put a step on it. I needed to find my snitch. She was always good for reliable Intel, granted you had the cabbage to pay for it.
When I finally caught up with my informant, she was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog dubbed Fireball Reynolds in a ramshackle joint just outside Brooklyn, drinking the heart right out of a fine winter afternoon. I wasn’t surprised to see him here with her, crouched over a small wooden table littered with bottles, one meaty paw wrapped around a beer and the other around her wrist. The drunk was well known around these parts, often for hiring women of the night to keep him company … and for beating them too. I always worried for her safety, more so tonight after seeing her companion. Caleb Reynolds was a man with a mean streak; an uncontrollable rage that burned deep within him which he frequently took out on the women he kept company with, leaving them disfigured. This man was the epitome of evil, filled with so many demons that not even a priest could save him.
I caught her eye as soon as I walked through the door, a noticeable huff leaving her lips as I crossed the bar to her table. Positioning myself between her and the kerb-crawler, I inform her that we need to speak.
“Piss off flatfoot,” Caleb snarled, his hold on her wrist tightening significantly, bruising the tender flesh. “I paid for her through the evening.”
Holding in my own rage, I pulled my wallet from the inside of my coat, quickly pulling out a couple of bills. Slamming the two dollars down on the table, I looked at the misogynist menacingly, daring him to protest. “Beat it. I need to borrow the lady for a moment; your next few rounds are on me.”
Seething, his face reddened like an over-ripe tomato as he glared me down. I could tell he was having an internal war with himself: refuse out of indignation or concede and take the money. The latter finally won as he released his grip from bruised flesh to pocket the cash.
Atta boy Caleb.
"You know what he’ll do when he comes back?” the share crop hissed through her teeth as she hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “Beat my teeth out, then kick me in the stomach for mumbling."
“Am I being polite or can I say what I want?” I reply snidely as I arched an eyebrow.
“I’m afraid I don’t like your manner,” she said to me, using the edge of her voice, letting me know she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
“I’ve had complaints about it,” I said nonchalantly with a soft shrug of my shoulders, both my tone and mood indifferent, “but nothing seems to do any good.”
“What do you want, Red?” she finally asked, her voice hollow; sadness softening her nasal twang, “I’m busy.”
“I’m not staying long,” I replied, as I pulled the sheet of calendar paper out of my breast pocket. Pointing to the date in question, I search out her haunted hazel eyes, “This here says James Maclay had an appointment down by Wallabout Bay the evening before he died; you happen to see him that night?”
“I don’t know,” she replied flippantly as she tossed her long chocolate locks over one shoulder, giving me a clear view of the long, white, serrated scar that ran the length of her neck. “But, fifty dollars buys a lot of information in my circle.”
“Five dollars buys a lot in your circle,” I shot back mockingly, even as my hand reached for my wallet. I pull out several bills, laying one on the table in front of her. “Lay it on me, doll.”
“I saw your guy,” she proclaimed as she snatched up the Lincoln, holding it at eye level, scrutinizing it before burying the bill deep into her bustier, “early Thursday night down by the Navy yard, around seven.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, he was talking to a Ferry captain.”
Rolling my eyes skyward, I hand her another dollar, wordlessly telling her to continue.
“They were arguing about something; a shipment that never arrived. Maclay was accusing the man of stealing and threatened to call Johnny law.”
“You get a good look at this Ferry Captain?” I asked, intrigued by this new tidbit of information. I anxiously stood there, waiting for her to continue. When she wasn’t forthcoming with any more information, I begrudgingly slapped another dollar bill down onto the table’s sticky surface.
“Yeah, I got a good look at him,” she admitted as she tucked away the newly acquired loot. “He was a short, beefy man with hardly any neck ... or hair. A real chrome-dome.”
Anything else?”
“He came into Madams afterward, cursing Maclay’s name, saying he would get even.”
“You get a name?”
This game of twenty questions was starting to grate on my nerves.
“Russell,” she snatched the last bill out of my hand, shoving it between her breasts along with the others before I could protest. “Russell Snyder.”
The name wasn’t ringing any bells. Either Snyder was an altar boy or he wasn’t from around these parts. Either way, I made a mental note to track him down.
“Thanks for your help, doll,” I say as I grab her cheek, pinching it briskly. “Try to stay out of trouble, will ya?”
I catch her eyes flicker momentarily over to the bar where Caleb’s consuming rum like its water, her expression bleak. I wanted to help her, I did. But she chose this life for herself years ago. She knew the risks better than anyone. There was nothing I could do for her except occasionally throw her a few bucks to stay off the streets for a night. It was ironic, really. Cordelia Chase, my old high school tormentor; a former bathing beauty turned trick. This cocotte was the closest thing to a friend I had in this god forsaken city.
That’s life though. Whichever way you turn, fate sticks out a foot to trip you.
_________________ Alyson, oh, Alyson why don´t you join my band? So you could play the flute like this one time in band camp. I Am Forever / A Special Christmas of Sorts / Maybe It's Just Me / Honeysuckle Rose / Blackouts and Breakthroughs / When Love Arrives
|