Mind of the Phoenix, page 11
“Careful, Mrs. Hughes.”
Does he just not like her speaking back to him, or was that his way of standing up for me?
Why would he stand up for you—a whore? says a voice in my head.
Yes, she’s probably right. His rejection of me last night has only proved that he finds me repulsive. Apparently he is nothing like Mr. Hayes, who would sleep with any beautiful woman regardless of her past. But then again, maybe I’m just not his type, like he said. Either way, it would be best if I forget about that night and my embarrassment.
Mrs. Hughes’s expression hardens and she turns to open one of the doors on the right. It is her office, where clients make their payments or special requests, and she sits behind the desk, gesturing for us to take a seat. She sets aside a few papers and then looks up at the detective.
“So, how can I help you, detective?”
“I require some documents, Mrs. Hughes. A list of transactions, to be exact.”
“Which ones?” she probes, picking up a pen to write the names. “And what dates?”
“I need Rachel Del Mar’s, Charles Darwitt’s, and a list of transactions for the empath that Mr. Darwitt saw on January seventh,” he answers. “I’d like them to list transactions from March seventh all the way back to September first of last year.”
“That would be Mia,” says Mrs. Hughes. “Mr. Darwitt had taken to requesting her specifically.” She then sits back in her chair and looks at the detective. “I will retrieve those lists and have them sent to the police station. Was there–”
“You’ll retrieve them now, Mrs. Hughes.”
The woman glares at the detective. “It will take a while to find all three.”
“Then I will be waiting here for you.”
“I’m a busy woman, detective,” she retorts, her lips pressed into a firm line. “I have clients. What if one were to walk in while I was gone?”
“They can wait,” he says, and even though his tone hasn’t changed I can tell he is losing patience with Mrs. Hughes. “And unless you wish to answer to the Elite, I suggest you get me those transactions.”
The woman stands up abruptly and marches past us. The office door slams behind her and I grin. She doesn’t like being told what to do, and I can recall the many instances in which she had argued with Madame Del Mar over the clients, money, and managing the concubines. She must be glad that the Madame has died and she now has the opportunity to manage the house according to her own rules. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants the position of Madame herself. For the sake of the other women in this house, I sure hope not, even if she couldn’t possibly be worse than Madame Del Mar.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone boss Mrs. Hughes around.”
Those green eyes settle on me and I quickly look away as memories of last night come to the surface of my mind. I’ve been very careful not to allude to the fact that despite my drunken state last night I clearly remember practically throwing myself on the detective. God, the things I said. To say that I am embarrassed would be an understatement, and I vow to never get drunk in the detective’s presence again. As I’m pretending to be engrossed in the items on Mrs. Hughes’s desk, I catch the distinct smell of a cigarette.
“Do you really have to have a cigarette now, detective?”
“What’s the matter, Moira?” he asks softly, his eyes intently on mine. “Does the smell bother you?”
“Not at all,” I respond, even though he knows that it does. I have no doubt that he remembers me blatantly telling him that I hate the smell of cigarettes when he rejected my advances.
“You’ve been unusually quiet this morning. Are you sure you are feeling well?”
“Yes, I am,” I answer, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned about my well-being, detective.”
“Well, you did drink a lot of wine last night.” I can hear him exhale a cloud of smoke. “Do you remember much of the evening?”
He’s toying with me, and I can feel those green eyes examining my reaction to everything he says. I assume he suspects that I remember a great deal, and he is relishing my discomfort. I stand, suddenly feeling restless, and begin examining the books on Mrs. Hughes’s shelf. I need to make him think that his rejection last night hadn’t offended me.
“Not much,” I say, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing my face. “I remember talking with Mr. Hayes.” Yes, bring in another man to prove my indifference to him.
“Is that so? And what did you two talk about in my absence?”
I snort as I recall my conversation with the Dream House Instigator. “He mostly just flirted with me.”
“I’m not surprised,” says the detective. “Amongst other things, the man has a reputation for flirting with women.” There’s a moment of silence before he adds, “Are you really interested in those books or are you avoiding me, Moira?”
I turn to him and ask innocently, “Why would I be avoiding you, detective?”
“You tell me,” he counters, and I realize that it was a mistake to look at him.
I quickly turn back toward the books and pull one out at random. I hear him move and suddenly he’s standing beside me. His hand reaches for the book and I force myself to look up at him. Those green eyes scan the title of the book and then search my face. They shouldn’t possess the power to make me squirm beneath their gaze.
“Who taught you how to read, Moira?”
He’s no longer interested in teasing me about the events of last night. I can see it in his eyes. He’s now determined to pry into my past, but I have no intention of discussing my history with him. Why does it even matter to him? I was caught and accused of murder. The facts are in that folder he keeps hidden in his desk drawer, so there shouldn’t be any questions.
I shrug. “What does it matter who taught me?”
“I’m simply curious.”
I sigh and say, “My previous master.”
His focus flickers between my hazel and blue eye. “You mean Scott Harrison, the Head of the Blockers.”
I turn away. That is a name I never want to hear again. Even though he was Head of the Blockers, his last name was Harrison because he was the property of Mr. Harrison, the Chief Elite member. He had been able to own some property even though he was an empath, because he was a blocker. Blockers are permitted more freedom than the rest of the empaths, for their obedient servitude to the Elite.
“Why would he teach you how to read, Moira?” His voice is demanding me to answer, but I don’t have one to offer him.
“I don’t know,” I respond angrily. “Who cares? He’s dead.” I grab the book out of his hand and shove it back onto the shelf. “Perhaps he got some sort of perverted pleasure out of it. God knows he didn’t get his pleasure like a normal man.”
I shouldn’t have said that, because now the detective is curious about my relationship with Scott. His eyes narrow, but before he can respond, the door opens. Mrs. Hughes walks in and stares at us in a mixture of annoyance and confusion, obviously questioning why we are standing beside the bookshelf with only a foot between us. The detective clears his throat and turns his attention to her.
“Were you able to find all three lists?”
“Yes,” she answers, and reluctantly hands three large envelopes to him.
“Thank you, I will have them sent back to you once I’m finished with them.”
She nods. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?” she asks, but her tone suggests that she is anything but genuine in her willingness.
“Yes, actually there is. I would like to speak with Mia.”
“Whatever for?” she blurts, appalled by the idea.
“I’d like to ask her questions pertaining to Mr. Darwitt that don’t involve you, Mrs. Hughes,” he says, and I’m glad that the intensity of those green eyes is not directed on me.
“Fine. I’ll escort you to her room.”
She leads us out of the office and up the stairs. Even though the majority of slaves in the pleasure house are women, there are several men who manage to bring in a large sum for the house. Some of them receive both female and male clients, and it is these slaves who bring in the highest revenue. A lot of the doors are closed, but I can hear the typical—and not so typical—sounds of sex. We walk by one room with an open door and I catch the sight of a naked woman sitting at a vanity brushing her hair. I look away and see a man exit another door further down. He looks up at us in surprise, and his eyes widen in shock and embarrassment.
“Detective Edwards, sir,” he says, freezing in his spot.
“Constable Smith,” says the detective, nodding to him.
We walk past him and I glance back. Constable Smith quickly looks away and rushes down the stairs. He clearly had no idea that he would run into the detective on his way out of enjoying a half hour in a concubine’s boudoir. I turn back and nearly bump into the detective. He glances down at me curiously while Mrs. Hughes knocks on the door we have stopped in front of. The door opens and a petite redhead appears before us wearing only a corset over her chemise. Ugh, couldn’t it have been the other Mia I remember?
“Mia, this is Detective Edwards,” says Mrs. Hughes. “He wants to ask you questions about Mr. Darwitt.”
Mrs. Hughes then leaves and Mia beckons for us to enter her room. She closes the door, not even bothering to put a house coat on, and stares at me with wide blue eyes. The raised red scar on her right cheekbone—a horizontal s, with a dot above and below—stands out against her pale skin.
“Moira?” she says hesitantly. “Is that you?”
I nod because I recognize her as well. We didn’t particularly get along when I lived at the pleasure house, but not many of us did. Our circumstances made us a bit hostile toward one another, viewing each woman as a potential rival for a rich client, although a bit is an understatement when it came to Mia. When we were younger—around fifteen—she had a particular fascination with spreading rumours about me, and sometimes she would manage to enter my room and set up a prank for me to find later. One time she had emptied my entire perfume bottle and filled it with a horrible-smelling liquid that made me reek for the entire day. She had also enjoyed calling me fat. She hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw her over a year ago—she is still extremely thin, with long coppery hair.
“I thought you were in prison? And what did you do to your hair?”
“I was,” I reply, giving her a guarded look, not even bothering to respond to her comment on my hair.
“I see you’ve finally managed to lose some weight,” she states, her cold eyes scanning my body.
“And I see you still have the tiniest breasts I’ve ever seen,” I snap.
Mia glares and opens her mouth with what I imagine would be a harsh retort, but the detective interrupts her.
“Moira is property of the Elite now and is aiding the police,” he interjects, in a voice that says he won’t tolerate our petty argument. “Now, Mia, I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Darwitt.”
“I smell smoke,” she says bluntly. “Did you have a cigarette before coming here, detective?”
“Yes–”
“Can I have one?” she asks, and her expression has turned hopeful.
“I suppose,” he responds slowly, and then gives her a cigarette, carefully lighting it for her.
When she exhales, she closes her eyes and her face relaxes. “Okay,” she says, opening her eyes. “You can ask me anything you want now.”
“Do you know why Mr. Darwitt had been requesting you specifically?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she answers, exhaling as she speaks. She then looks at me pointedly as she adds, “Perhaps it was because, unlike most of the other women here, he thought I was a good fuck.”
At that moment, the occupants of the room next to us cry out in ecstasy. The detective glances at the wall and raises a brow, and I stifle a laugh. They are sounds that I grew up with and had to get used to. Sometimes the sounds were annoying and sometimes they were amusing, but mostly I’ve just learned how to tune them out. I’d rather hear the breathless grunts of a man close to orgasm than hear the plaintive cries of a woman who’s being beaten.
“And do you recall his visit the night of January seventh?”
“Barely,” she replies, and pulls on the cigarette with her lips.
“Did he seem unusual?”
“No,” she answers. “He seemed like his usual self: excited to see me.”
“I see,” says the detective.
“Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “No, thank you for your time, Mia.”
“Thank you for the cigarette,” she says, smiling up at him.
She’s trying to flirt with him in an attempt to acquire another client and to annoy me. I glare at her, because I don’t like the unspoken invitation in her smile. The detective politely curves his lips, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s clearly not impressed or interested, which brings a grin to my face. Apparently I’m not the only woman to have been rejected by him. We leave her room and head downstairs, and I’m glad we haven’t run into anyone else I know. Most of them probably think I’m dead already.
“Well, that was pointless,” I state peevishly. “Why did you even want to question her?”
“Because, Moira, a good detective pursues every connection even if it seems pointless,” he responds, and then glances at me.
I don’t like the curious expression he is giving me, so I look away. I’m avoiding his gaze too often now, since last night, and he is aware of it. From now on, I have to make an effort to keep his gaze as if nothing has changed. We leave the pleasure house and drive back to the police station in silence. The pleasure house is situated at the edge of the south district just before the industrial zone, so we first have to drive further north to Churchill Road, which lies at the heart of the city. I imagine he’ll have plenty to say once we enter his office and examine the three lists of transactions.
But when we enter the building, he turns to me and says, “I’ll have two constables escort you back to the hotel.”
“Why?” I look up at him in confusion. “Aren’t we going to go over those lists?”
“I am,” he answers, and I realize then that he had intended to examine the lists on his own.
“I can help,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my evening alone at the hotel with constables who won’t talk to me. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad if one of the constables was Rick.
He deliberates for a moment, and finally sighs. “Alright.”
We enter his office, and I immediately sit in the chair before his desk. He sits down and hands me one of the envelopes. It’s Rachel’s list of transactions from September first of last year to March seventh of this year. I pull the thick pile of paper out of the envelope and stare amazedly at the elegant writing detailing every sexual transaction that she had in those six months. The pages are dissected into columns and rows. The rows list the dates of the transactions, while the columns list the client’s name, time of transaction, duration of sexual service, and money paid. The last one is a column for any special requests the client had made. I begin to speculate what my list of transactions would look like and, even more daringly, if the detective had perused its contents.
“I want you to look over the names of the clients and write down on this sheet any names that you recognize,” he instructs. “The Phoenix had used persuasion on her, so I want you to see if any blockers had visited her.”
He hands me the piece of paper and a pen, and I drag my chair closer to his desk. He looks up abruptly and narrows his brows. “What? It’s easier if I have a surface to work on.”
I sit down and squirm to find a comfortable position. I hear him sigh on the other side of the desk.
“Quit moving, Moira.”
“Which list are you looking at?”
He doesn’t glance up from the papers as he says, “Mia’s.”
There’s a moment of silence while we both examine our lists before he suddenly says, “You two seem to have a quarrelsome history.”
“What makes you think that?” I reply sardonically, and he glances up at me. “Well, we definitely weren’t friends. She enjoyed tormenting me.”
“Yes, it would seem so.” His face distorts once more in contemplation and then he looks down at the papers in front of him, so I return to my papers as well.
As I’m examining the names, I notice with growing dismay that the majority of Rachel’s client list was Collin Evans. In fact, as I glance at the last page of the pile from September I see his name in several slots. They had been seeing each other for some time, and I presume his name can be found even earlier. The time duration always varies between one and two hours, and I ponder over how Constable Evans was able to afford such an expense. Granted, a concubine like Rachel wouldn’t have been priced high. I catch sight of Mr. Anderson’s name in February and write the name down on the blank sheet of paper the detective had given me. His time duration was an hour, and I notice that there is an entry in the column for special requests. The words bondage and whip swim in my vision and I feel dizzy as my heart is stirred into a frenetic song.
I suddenly find myself back at the pleasure house, waiting in the hall for the man to exit the room where the sound of a woman crying out in pain has been echoing down the hall for almost an hour. I want to see his face; I want to memorize that face so I don’t forget the bastard. When he exits, I look straight into those black eyes and vow that I will someday make him pay. His eyes had trailed over my body that day with pure desire, and I knew then, like I know now, that he wanted me. He had smiled at me and the sly curve of his lips had said, “You’re next.” That was over a year ago, but I can’t believe I had forgotten his face.
“Moira?”
I glance up at the detective. “Oh, sorry. I just remembered from where I recognized Mr. Anderson’s face.”
The detective knits his brows. “Was… he a client of yours?”
“Oh, God no,” I blurt. “But I remember seeing him at the pleasure house, and his name is on Rachel’s list. The bastard enjoys punishing his women.”
