The Shoal of Time Read online

  She ushered me to the one chair in the room, then busied herself with pouring the tea. Paranoid as I am—or reasonably cautious—I noted that she had a pot and gave us both cups from it.

  “What are we drinking?” I asked as she handed the cup to me.

  “Boring Earl Grey, I’m afraid. It was on sale, and as you can see this isn’t the penthouse at the foot of Canal Street. I’m a bit down on my luck.”

  “Down on your luck how?” I asked.

  “Let’s not play social worker. If you know how to find this place, you know what it is. Had a stint in jail. So not a good time. It was here and in the trade or sleeping under the Claiborne overpass and begging for jobs that require asking if you’d like fries with that. No one wants to hire a con with a record, even at minimum wage.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “Of course you are. Look, honey, I’m judging, so you might as well join me.”

  “It’s not an easy life and there are risks to it. Some men think of working girls as targets.”

  “When you’re an ex-junkie con, nothing is easy, trust me. It’s only bad choices or worse choices. I may be a working girl, but I’m not all girl, if you get what I mean. No money equals no hormones, so I’ve still got boy muscles.”

  “I noticed. But all the muscles in the world don’t stop a bullet.”

  She pulled her robe open to show a scar on her thigh. “Got that when I was eight years old, playing in the courtyard at the Lafitte Projects. If being a little kid playing with dolls can’t stop a bullet, nothing can stop a bullet.”

  “We all should be safe. Kids especially. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry unless you pulled the trigger.”

  “I can promise you it wasn’t me.”

  “Good, ’cause otherwise I’d have to poison your tea. But you didn’t come here to talk about my troubles.”

  “No, but it doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”

  She smiled. A chip in one of her front teeth, but a nice smile. “Okay, honey, the reason I drink on-sale tea and live in this dump is that I’m saving money. Going to hairdressing school during the day, working to make ends meet at night. Got a friend of mine who is the goddess of nails,” she flashed me her long red nails with streaks of gold swirling in them, “and once I have enough of a nest egg we’re going to start our own business.”

  “Great nails,” I said, not that I’m an expert on these things. I think I used nail polish exactly one Mardi Gras, alternating gold, green, and purple. It wasn’t a pleasant enough experience to repeat.

  “Yes, indeedy. So, let’s get to what brought you to my door. I have to start my makeup soon.”

  “Human trafficking. I’m looking into a case that involves people, mostly women, being brought here to unwillingly work the trade.”

  “None of us are willing, sugar. Like I said, it’s bad choices and worse choices. I’m an ex-con, same as few others, and some of the other girls here are, let’s be polite and say too dumb to do anything other than lie on their back. Broken families, drug use. Girls don’t choose to end up here, they’re here when they have no choice.”

  “I’m talking about the difference between bad choices and bad luck and being forced. Women who agree to come here to wait tables only to be locked in a room, repeatedly raped until they’re broken and willing to turn tricks.”

  “Gotcha. Worse than a bad choice.”

  “Look, I doubt anyone doing this is working out of here. It’s too low-rent to make it worth their while. But what happens to a woman after she’s been used that way? Maybe she ends up walking Tulane Ave.”

  “Maybe, but most girls here sing the same sad song I do. Jail, no job, no hope of a job. A lot of drug use brought them here. But a big organized ring? Not that I know of.”

  “If you hear of anything…” I pulled the last twenty from my wallet and handed it and my card to her.

  “You’ll be the first one I call.” She tucked the bill into her cleavage. “If you ever want a deal on your nails, you let me know.”

  I glanced down at my short, blunt nails. “Not a polish kind of girl.”

  “Dyke dick.” She laughed again.

  I’d heard the joke enough times that I merely smiled. “Thanks for your tea and time,” I said as I let myself out.

  “Drop on by next time you’re in the ’hood,” she called after me.

  A big roach was crawling into the pizza boxes as I passed the trash can on the way to my car. Not likely I’d be back in this ’hood again anytime soon.

  I sat in my car, thinking about the way life twists and turns you. What if I’d been a kid shot by a stray bullet, left to grow up in a world where it wasn’t just possible, but had happened? I used legal alcohol as my drug of choice and managed to not fall over the edge. I drank, too much at times, but I sobered up for work, for the important things in my life. At least so far I had.

  I stared at the motel, rows of tiny rooms, stinking trash, populated by people who made bad choices and worse choices.

  I needed to be careful about the choices I made.

  I started my car and pulled out.

  Barely half a block down the road, my cell phone rang. I pulled over and managed to grab my phone before it went to voice mail.

  To my hello a voice said, “This is Frank Mullen. You left a message?”

  “Yes, my name is Michele Knight. I’m a private detective in New Orleans. I was interested in a missing person case. Kimberly Fremont? It was about four years ago.”

  “I’m not sure if I remember that one,” he said. “I’ll have to take a look in the files. It may take a day or two.”

  “I’d appreciate anything you can tell me.”

  He hung up.

  It was about what I expected. He didn’t tell me to go fuck myself, which was a plus. My bet was he was going to kick it up the ladder before he answered any questions. He either was a callous bastard or had memory problems if he didn’t remember the case. No one forgets when a child disappears, especially if the case isn’t solved. Maybe he’d call back, maybe he wouldn’t.

  I put my phone away, checked the rearview mirror, and pulled out.

  One more stop and then I’d call it a day. The only problem was this one might cost more than money.

  Chapter Twelve

  The storied madams of the French Quarter were mostly gone or had moved to more discreet and less clichéd locations. My destination was one of the remaining ones. I’d investigated a company worried about embezzlement. It turned out their chief account was cooking the books. Some of the money was going to an obscure business with a P.O. box address. The name of the putative company was Red Sky at Night. Of course the next line is “sailor’s delight,” referencing the weather. But this company didn’t mean delight in any climate-related sense. Madame Celeste and her girls had been entertaining the accountant on the company dime for several years. They wanted to go after her, but I managed to negotiate a deal where they got a good portion of their money back in exchange for silence.

  Madame Celeste wasn’t happy about losing the money, but she merely sighed and said she’d earn less money if she and her girls were in jail.

  No matter how high class, nothing can take the stench out of one person with greater power buying the body of another person. However, Madame Celeste protected her girls as much as one can and still make money off them. They worked out of an old house in the part of the Quarter that’s partly residential, partly commercial. She kept a bouncer at the door, which was only unlocked for customers to enter or exit. If a john caused a problem, they weren’t allowed back. Same if they left an STD calling card. Madame Celeste had a doctor—I suspected he got freebies—who checked her girls on a regular basis.

  However, her kindness only went as far as the bottom line. She was smart and calculating and if I wanted something from her, I’d have to give something in return.

  I parked in a pay lot off Canal Street. That way I’d have an excuse to not drink.

  Th
e late-afternoon light was waning, leaving shadows that were a blue chill. I tightened my jacket as a cold breeze blew off the river.

  The house was as I remembered it, strategically in need of a coat of paint as if to say nothing valuable or important was here. But the boards of the doors and shutters were straight and true. They would hold against storms of any kind.

  I tapped softly on the door. It was late enough in the day that they were open for business. I glanced up at the camera. It was well hidden behind ivy, but I knew there had to be one there. No one got through the door without being vetted. I wondered how many senators and captains of industry had stood here waiting just as I was.

  The door silently opened, the hinges well oiled.

  A big man in a dark suit looked down at me and said, “Can I help you?” His voice was a low rumble.

  “I’m an acquaintance of Madame Celeste. My name is Michele Knight. If possible I’d like to talk to her for a few minutes.”

  “Please wait here. I’ll see if she’s available.”

  He shut the door in my face—softly, quietly. It wouldn’t do to slam doors in this kind of business.

  I waited five minutes. Then ten. She was in. She was toying with me, seeing what I’d go through to speak with her.

  Fifteen minutes. It was cold and the sun was close to setting. Light and its promise of warmth would be soon gone.

  Just as I was about to give up and decide her game wasn’t worth playing, the door opened.

  The voice rumbled, “This way, please.”

  The inside was very different from the outside. Fantasy reigned here. The walls were papered with rich reds and golds, lit with expensive and subtle lighting. The furniture was antique or well-done replicas. Everything to make sure the clients felt they were getting their money’s worth.

  Mr. Basso Profundo led me to a back parlor, one with a wide and deep dark leather couch and a well-stocked bar.

  I wondered if she was watching me on the camera in the far end of the room. Knowing it was likely, I did nothing except stand where I’d been left. She’d get bored and come talk to me.

  I didn’t have to wait as long this time. Only five minutes.

  Madame Celeste entered. In her late fifties, she was still a striking woman. She had been evasive when I asked, but I suspected she had once been a working girl herself, one who commanded a high price. She spoke French and Spanish and knew more about wines than most sommeliers. That didn’t come cheap. She was tall, almost my height, probably five-nine. Her eyes were a startling green in a face that could have been any race or a blend of them all. Her hair was black and thick, worn loose to frame her face. She wore black pants with black suede boots, just enough heel to look me in the eye. Her top was a soft gray sweater, cashmere I’d guess. It accentuated the still-voluptuous curves of her body and draped gently over the areas that age had to have affected.

  “Michele Knight, how pleasant to see you.” She held out her hand as if we were old friends.

  When I took it, she leaned in and kissed me on one cheek, then the other, Continental style.

  “Madame Celeste, you are as beautiful as always.” I returned her cheek kisses.

  “Can I get you something?” She pulled a bottle of forty-year-old Scotch from a shelf in the bar.

  It far eclipsed the twelve-year-old stuff Emily had bought for me.

  It would be rude to say no. And stupid to turn down better stuff than I’d ever be able to buy.

  “That would be lovely. Just a finger, I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  She ignored me and filled up half the glass. I didn’t argue. She poured the same for herself.

  “Cheers,” she said, handing me the glass, then raising hers in a toast.

  I responded by touching mine to hers.

  “You brought me a lot of business.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not intended, I’m sure. It seems some of the other executives of the company liked what they saw. And learned enough to not directly funnel company money to me.”

  “Glad to hear you made up the money you lost.”

  “I was never quite sure why you did that. Why not just have us arrested? You had the evidence.”

  “They don’t arrest the men, only the women. I guess I don’t think that’s fair. Plus, I was hired to stop the embezzlement and get the money back. If you were arrested, the papers would have been all over it.”

  “Indeed, who doesn’t love a good sex scandal.” She took a drink and licked her lips.

  “That would have made the company look foolish and they wouldn’t have gotten their money back. In an imperfect world, we do the best we can.” I took a sip. That was a mistake. It would be hard to go back to the usual stuff after sampling something this good. It was smooth and complex, smoke and fire in amber liquid.

  “I appreciate how you handled that. As you might guess, I have little need for high-and-mighty moral types in my world.”

  “And here I thought they were your best customers.”

  She smiled and raised her glass in my direction. “True. I meant in business dealings like ours.”

  “In that we agree. I have little use for the pious hypocrites.”

  “They don’t like either of us, do they?”

  I hadn’t specifically told her that I was a lesbian, but a woman over forty who’s never married and works in a job like mine is an easy guess. “No, they don’t. But I didn’t come here to take up your time on this.”

  “Yes, but it’s more pleasant than the real reason you’re here.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “You know why I’m here?”

  “The bodies they pulled out of the river early this morning.”

  I kept my face neutral. “What do you know about them?”

  “Mostly what I need to know. Neither of them were my girls.”

  “Can you be sure so quickly?”

  “None of my current girls. Once I heard, I immediately checked. None were missing or unaccounted for.”

  “What about former workers?”

  “I don’t think so. Of course, I can’t keep track of all of them, especially the ones who’ve been long gone. But…it’s not the kind of thing that happens to us.”

  By “us” I took her to mean her expensive and protected women, not sex workers in general.

  “How much do you know?”

  She smiled, not happy, but knowing. “Probably more than you do at this point. I have connections.”

  “Of course you do. Far better than mine, I’m sure,” I said. Mostly because she could blackmail them with what they liked to do with her girls. I would never have that kind of power. “Why do you think they were working girls?”

  “First, that my connections quickly alerted me. They thought they might be. Also from the details they gave me. The women were young, had been pretty before the fishes got to them. Dressed in clothing appropriate for the boudoir. Black lace corset on one, a red leather bra and panties on the other.”

  “There were two bodies there,” I asked.

  She eyed me. “Do you not know or are you testing me?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m here on a case about human trafficking. I hadn’t heard about the bodies dumped in the river.”

  “Human trafficking? You think that’s happening here?”

  “You think it’s not?”

  “You don’t think I’m involved, do you?”

  “No. I wouldn’t be here if I did. But you probably know more about this world than anyone.”

  “Good, because I’m not. The girls that work here seek me out and they want to be here.”

  Bad choices and worse choices. Maybe an astronaut or a model or an actress, but no young girl dreams of growing up and ending up at a place like this. But I didn’t argue with her. Not while drinking her good Scotch.

  “True, which is why they’re not likely to end up in the river. What else can you tell me?” I quickly amended that to, “Are you willing to tell me?” Madame C
eleste would share what she chose.

  “It has people upset. It’s not good for business.”

  “No, I can see it wouldn’t be.” I kept the sarcasm out of my voice.

  But she was an astute woman. “Yes, that sounds callous. Two young women are dead, they died horrible deaths. That’s tragic, but there is nothing I can do about that. I don’t know them enough to mourn. All I can do is go on.”

  “Which means you have to worry about business.”

  “Exactly. I have some control over that. The rest…there is nothing I can do.” Briefly, a look of grief crossed her face, but it was quickly gone, replaced by her practiced expression, one meant to hide all feelings.

  “How will it affect you?”

  “The girls are scared. I can’t blame them. So I’ll need more security. Plus the extra scrutiny. Some official might take it into his head to crack down on vice.”

  “Could they be linked? The rumors of human trafficking in the area and what happened to these woman?” I asked. It was a long shot, but I wanted to see her reaction.

  “I wondered about that myself.”

  “Why?”

  “The way they died. It seemed intended to give a message. Escape or rebel and this is what happens to you. They were meant to be displayed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you sure you want the details?”

  “I’m never sure that I want to know. But imagination is worse.”

  “Their mouths were taped shut, their hands tied, and they were lashed together, back to back. They had a stake shoved into their vaginas and their stomachs were slit open. Neither wound was immediately fatal. They were alive when they were thrown in the water.” She paused, sipping her Scotch as if she needed its flame. “They could kick their feet, but tied as they were, if one was up, the other had to be underwater. With the tape on their mouths they couldn’t scream and could only breathe through their noses. The cuts were precise, enough to go through skin and expose their organs, letting the water in.”

  “That’s a horrible way to die,” I stated. If it was a message, it was one delivered by a sadistic fiend.

  “The stakes were wooden, thick enough to…have hurt and long enough to pierce flesh, leaving two openings into…the body cavity.” The practiced look slipped. She, too, was horrified, telling me the details as if she had to purge them from herself.