Twisted Justice, page 11
When he finally made it to the other side, he all but collapsed. The woman followed close behind. Her eyes were wide open, exhilarated. “That was fun!”
“Yes, ‘fun’ is just the word I was thinking of.” He sat on a flat board jutting from the wall. “I can share this seat.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine.” She paused. “Thanks for coming. I know it was a leap of faith.”
“If it helps Dan, it’s worth it. Do you know Dan?”
“No. But I knew George Belasco. And I don’t think your guy had anything to do with his death. I wanted to talk to someone, but I definitely did not want to get on the DA’s radar. I heard you frequented the court clerk’s office, so I left a message for you.”
“What do you know about this case?”
“Not much. But George was involved with a lot of sketchy characters.”
“And you know this because you were his...dominatrix?”
“George was into the kink. And he wasn’t getting it at home. So he came to me. Have you met his wife?”
“No.”
“She’s an uptight society witch. Nasty. Mean. Smokes.” She shuddered. “Has a thing going on with her masseuse at the country club. Disgusting.”
“So...Belasco was looking for some outside comfort?”
She leaned sideways, letting the tug on the carabiner hold her upright. “I’m not sure ‘comfort’ is the right word. But he was looking for something. He showed up about the time I started working in this profession.”
This was a profession? “Where were you working?”
“At a downtown BDSM dungeon.”
Dungeon? That sounded appealing. “Is this in St. Petersburg?”
“Oh yes. And completely legal, too.”
“BDSM...?”
“Bondage, domination, sadism, masochism.”
“Of course.”
“I was a history major in college and, well, do I need to say it? I was having trouble finding work. Didn’t like teaching. I answered a rather mysterious ad and found myself interviewing for a job as a dominatrix.”
“What...kind of material did they cover in the interview?”
“Not much. Maybe I flatter myself, but I think as soon as they saw me, they wanted me. The interview was more about developing my secret identity.”
“Dominatrices have secret identities? Like Superman?”
She laughed. “Yes, but for different reasons. No one would be intimidated by the regular me, the history nerd who likes to read and take long candlelit baths. So we developed my alter ego. Mistress Suspiria.”
“Sounds like a character in a horror film.”
“It was meant to intimidate. What I liked was that it allowed me to use a wide variety of accents. On different nights, I did British, French, Spanish. With George, Mistress Suspiria had a Russian accent, kind of like Boris and Natasha. And about that subtle. I wore bright red lipstick, high heels, and provocative outfits. Leather pencil skirts. Corsets. Vinyl. But my favorite was the catsuit.”
“Comfortable?”
“Not at all. But damn, I look good in it.” She purred. “Mistress Suspiria was strong, unapologetic, sometimes tough, sometimes gentle, sometimes dirty, sometimes sweet. Whatever the situation required.”
“Whatever puts the man on edge.”
“No. Exactly the opposite. Whatever makes the man feel safe. You have to understand that...all people are different. Tastes are not universal. Some men want to be mothered. Some men want to be told what to do, to be dominated. They want a place where they feel safe enough to remove the mask, to shed the armor, to become the little boy quivering inside, full of trauma and pain and heartache.”
“And that’s good?”
“Yeah. Because once they surrender to that, they can heal. And after they heal, they become better men.”
He couldn’t believe he was having this extremely adult conversation in the middle of a high-rise theme park. “I had no idea being a professional dominatrix was so...spiritual.”
“I understand that you don’t get it. But that’s because you’re gay, right?”
“I...don’t see...”
She laughed again. “Don’t be embarrassed. I knew ten seconds into this conversation. You don’t react the same way most men do. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I like it. Nice change of pace.”
“Glad I could be of assistance,” he mumbled.
“And you’re Catholic, right?”
“Okay, this is getting downright spooky.”
“So you understand the concept of confession.”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, that’s what dominatrices really are. Not sex toys. We don’t even have sex. But men end up kneeling in front of me and confessing all their sins. Asking for forgiveness.”
“Which you grant.”
“Of course. That’s what makes them feel whole again, so the healing can commence. They need someone who listens without judging. Without constantly criticizing or looking for openings to make negative comments. Men have feelings too, and insecurities. Sensitivities. Nothing wrong with that. Given the way our culture runs, full of toxic masculinity, my hat goes off to men who are courageous enough to deal with their problems in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone. Going to an underground dungeon might seem weird to you, but who’s harmed? No one.”
“Where does the bondage come into it?”
“Some men need to be tied up before they can connect to their deep-seated emotions. Before they can let it all hang out.”
“Did I hear you say...there’s no sex involved?”
“Never.”
“Including George Belasco?”
“Absolutely. Sure, I crack the whip, literally, and some men get off on it, but traditional sex is off the table. Some men like to masturbate at the end of the session—after they’ve asked for permission. But far more often, the session ends with men talking about their emotions openly, wanting to hug me or kiss my feet to show their gratitude.”
“I’ve met George Belasco,” Jimmy said. “I’ve seen him at work. I have difficulty picturing him kissing your cat-suited toes.”
“He had to wear his armor in public, of course. People expect that from the district attorney. But behind the scenes...he opened himself up to me.” She paused. “And that’s the problem.”
She repeatedly glanced over her shoulder. He noticed a couple staring at their alcove with envious eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Turned out, George had some major sins to confess. He was involved in seriously bad stuff.”
“Like what?”
She glanced over her shoulder again, then proceeded. “Like...trafficking.”
“You mean...human trafficking? Sex trafficking?”
“I’m not sure about the details. But I know he was involved with dangerous people. And I knew it weighed heavily on his conscience.”
Jimmy knew there had been a recent surge in human trafficking in this area. The proximity to the coast, to foreign nations, made this a relatively easy drop-off spot. “Why would he do that? He had a first-rate legal career.”
“Yes. But not nearly as much money as people thought. His family inheritance wasn’t as substantial as some believed, plus he spent a ton of it getting himself elected. And that horrible harridan wife spent compulsively. He needed a surge of income or he was going to face serious public humiliation.” She hesitated. “Have you heard of a man named Conrad Sweeney?”
Jimmy had to stifle a laugh. “Yes, that name has popped up once or twice.”
“Like George, Sweeney’s public persona is all goodness and light. But the reality is much darker.”
“He might be the man to see if you need money. Sweeney’s a billionaire.”
“Except maybe not so much anymore.” She leaned in closer. “George said Sweeney was experiencing some financial problems. Cash-flow issues. A major investment went sour in a big way.”
Jimmy’s mind raced. During the Ossie Coleman case, they learned Sweeney had invested in a new bio-quantum computing project that went belly up, and despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to collect from his partner, who was now behind bars. Could that be the source of the problem? “Sweeney and Belasco both needed cash. And they turned to human trafficking?”
“Nothing legit was going to bring the kind of dough they needed. Not fast enough.”
“How much did they need?”
“I’m not sure. I know what George told me while he was crying and kissing my feet.”
“Did he mention any other partners?”
“Not to me. But his girlfriend might know more.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you were his girlfriend.”
“No, I was his confessor. But there was no sex. Most men do, however, want sex every now and again.” She paused. “Most women too, for that matter.”
“Belasco also had a mistress?”
“If you want to use that ugly word.” She glanced over her shoulder. The other couple was heading toward their alcove. “I should get out of here.” She jotted something on a scrap of paper and shoved it into Jimmy’s hand.
“Wait. I have a thousand more questions.”
“Sorry.” She turned away. “Leaving.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Better that way.”
“How will I contact you?”
“You won’t.”
“I might need more information. Maybe when the trial—”
She whirled around, and this time her face showed more than a trace of anger. “Don’t push it. I liked George. I want you to catch his murderer. But I will not get wrapped up in a trial. You know what would happen if I were publicly exposed? ‘The DA’s Dominatrix.’ Do you know what the press would do with that? I’m not going to let that happen to his memory. Or to me.”
She headed across another sky-high bridge, far faster than he could follow. She’d be out of the building before he could cross to the next station.
He had obtained some fascinating information. But was it useful? Would anyone believe it? Human trafficking? Hard to imagine.
Though not as hard as imagining George Belasco on his knees weeping, kissing a dominatrix’s feet.
He wasn’t sure what he should do next, other than getting off this scary aerial contraption. But he knew he had to keep searching. George Belasco had many secrets, and it was possible they led to his demise.
Chapter 22
Conrad Sweeney stood on the dais, staring at the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the afternoon to watch him cut a stupid ribbon to open yet another women’s shelter in Southside St. Petersburg.
He was pleased. No matter how much controversy swirled around this community, and how deeply involved he was, it never touched him. He was careful. He made sure there were buffers, layers of people and dummy corporations preventing anything from being traced back to him.
This was the ninth shelter he’d opened in the past five years, and yet he could still gather a crowd. The only difference between this and the previous openings was that Camila Pérez did not stand at his side. Though she was out of jail, she was busy managing her senatorial campaign.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sweeney began. The microphones squawked. He signaled the sound man in the rear, who adjusted the gain. “We are gathered today to renew our commitment to everyone in this community, from the most fortunate to the least privileged, reminding ourselves that every human life is important and that we will leave no soul behind.”
The crowd thunderously applauded.
What a load of poppycock. He literally believed not a single part of that contrived sentence, but it went down well with the masses—particularly those so little employed that they could turn out for this sort of twaddle in the middle of the day.
He had favored cracking a bottle of champagne over the cornerstone, but someone in municipal government thought that could be perceived as promoting alcohol abuse. Small minds, small ideas. He would have to content himself with the scissors.
“And so,” he boomed, “let us open the doors to all those who might need this place. In an era when we finally give proper respect to women and the unique challenges they face, let us ensure that all, no matter how dire their circumstances, have a safe place they can go in a time of need.”
Prudence handed him a large golden pair of scissors. He turned, moving slowly so the photographers could get as many shots as they needed, then cut the pink ribbon.
Enthusiastic applause followed.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Get me out of here.”
Prudence took him by the arm and gently guided him toward an exit she had prepared, totally guarded and completely immune from reporters lobbing questions.
* * *
As Prudence herded him toward the car, he started asking questions. He’d been out of touch for almost ninety minutes. In that amount of time, the entire world could have shifted on its axis.
“Bring me up to date,” he said calmly.
Prudence needed no further instruction. “The press want a statement on the Belasco murder. Mayor Pérez’s release. Pike’s bail.”
“They’re not going to get one. I’m staying out of it.” His upper lip curled. “Publicly.”
“The bar association called. They’re requesting your input on the vacant judgeships.”
“I do have some thoughts on that. Tell them I’ll get back to them. Are the disbarment proceedings against Pike moving forward?”
“Not really. They’re waiting to see if he’s convicted. If he is, that will make disbarment a no-brainer.”
“And the Senate race?”
“The mayor is soaring in the polls. Up two points since yesterday.”
His fists clenched. “How can that be? The woman has been charged with murder. Twice!”
“But completely exonerated. Both times. On the internet, everyone believes she was framed by secretive but powerful forces.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Well, yes, there is that.”
“She’s an underdog. And America loves an underdog. Loves to watch them fight their way to the top.”
“And then once they reach the top, America loves to watch them fall.”
“True. But our mayor is still on the ascendency.”
“Which baffles me. Perhaps we should finance a new opponent.”
“A little late for that.” She reached the limo, then opened the back door. “Not to mention expensive.”
He slid his considerable girth into the back seat. “True. My cash flow issues have not been alleviated.”
“Any luck with the Coleman suit?”
“No. The clan has closed ranks, completely isolated themselves from my partnership and all those involved in it. It will be a long time before that’s resolved.”
Prudence slid into the other side while Verity, Sweeney’s driver, donned her chauffeur’s cap and started the car.
“What about your...other enterprises?”
“I’m optimistic. But the future is always difficult to predict.”
“If need be, you do have a gallery full of virtually priceless artworks you could liquidate.”
He glared at her with cold eyes. “That will never happen.”
“I’m just saying...”
“That will never happen.” He exhaled heavily, then folded his hands in his lap. “Is Shawna producing any useful intelligence?”
“She is becoming...” Prudence paused, as if searching for the right word. “...somewhat difficult to work with. She seems...recalcitrant. I think she regrets getting involved with you.”
“Has she offered to refund the money she took?”
“I believe that has been spent on her nephew’s education.”
“Then she can damn well deliver the goods.”
“Agreed. But she’s not happy about it. Someone paid for a surprise sweep of the courthouse.”
“Sweep? Housecleaning?”
“Looking for electronic devices. Like the ones she has repeatedly placed at your direction. She managed to get hers out before they were detected, but just barely.”
“I will need her at the ready if the Pike case goes to trial.”
“And it will. Soon.”
“With that skinny little Mexican girl representing Pike?”
“I assume.”
“She has no idea what she’s facing.”
“She’s talked to a lot of people. I believe everyone in Pike’s firm has. They’re not working on anything else.” Prudence fell silent for a moment. “You think...this is the time to reveal your trump card?”
“Yes. We’ve slipped the noose around Pike’s neck. Now we need to tighten the cinch. I don’t want him to escape this time.”
“You could try a more...direct approach to eliminating this nuisance.”
“I doubt it. Ever since he was attacked and almost killed, he’s been careful. He’s got security people watching him.”
“Rent-a-cops are easily eluded.”
“He’ll be on trial for his life soon. And that’s so much better than simply killing him. Let him rot in prison, like his father did. Imagine the irony. The exquisite torture. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took his own life. That would be majestic.”
“Indeed.”
“I gave Pike a chance to work with me. But he turned that down, like his father before him. Fine. I’m tired of his interference.”
The limo stopped at his next appointment. Prudence started to exit, but he stopped her.
“It’s time for this little drama to reach its conclusion, Prudence.” He peered at her with darkened eyes. “This time, we finish Pike for good.”
Chapter 23
Dan had come to like team meetings—or at the least to not positively detest them. He’d learned the value of working with a team. He’d learned what a fine pack of partners he had and how much they could contribute. Plus he genuinely liked them and liked working with them.
But in this case, he wasn’t really working with them. He was watching them work. He would never enjoy being sidelined.
The fact that his life was on the line probably also undercut some of the pleasure.
