A FOOL FOR LOVE

A Max Payne Story in Four Acts

1. The Dead Hooker

Friday night, nine o'clock. My wedding anniversary.

And I was stood in a sleazy East Side tenement room, looking out at the rain pounding on the dusty single-glaze window, and running down to the dirty streets below in steady rivers.

Me and Michelle had reached a compromise. She knew there'd always be another woman in our life. She'd known it a year ago today, when we swore till death do us part, and she damn well knew it now.

Tonight the other woman was a dead hooker, lying flat on a dirty, blood-soaked bed with two bullet holes in her chest and her stunned, prematurely-aged face swollen with bruises. More dead riff-raff, swept up from the crumbling streets of the world's greatest city. Another forgotten victim.

"What are you thinking, Max?" Alex solemnly asked me.

I stared at the pathetic shape of the corpse on the bed. She wore torn, ragged fishnets, a tight black top, a mini-skirt and little else. She'd slapped on the make-up, maybe hoping to hide the lines of a life of pain and abuse. Her brown eyes, both of them big and beautiful, were staring wide in horror, rimmed with dark lines of stress and lack of sleep.

"Late twenties, maybe," I suggested. "Looks older, though. Cause of death, blood loss from two bullets to the abdomen." I looked at him hopefully. "A hooker?"

"Her name?" Alex asked.

I shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

He threw me a pair of plastic gloves. I frowned, pulled them on and started to frisk through the hooker's pockets.

Alex had been my partner since I joined the force two years ago. He'd been doing this for nearly a decade now and knew the ropes pretty well. Alex was a pretty respected guy at the precinct. He'd solved a few high-profile cases over the years, including several major drugs busts and the arrest of a high profile member of the Russian mob. I'd had a lot to live up to when he took me on his partner. His former partner had gone on to disability retirement after taking a bullet to the neck and was currently living in a chair off government benefits. He'd been happy to take me in, a rookie, show me the ropes a little.

I removed a thin plastic ID card. Driver's license. Though I doubt she could have afforded a car.

"Katrina Demeo," I said, handing the card to Alex. "Twenty-four. Jesus Christ."

Alex glanced at the card and then slid it back into the late hooker's pocket. He winced at the cold feel of her flesh beneath, already getting stiff. "Save that for forensics," he frowned.

"Ring any bells?" I asked, pulling my coat close around me. The room's only heat came from a broken heater in the corner. Outside the wind howled through the thin window, ice cold and soulless.

"Can't say she does, Max," Alex replied, rubbing a hand through his thin beard. "Then again, with my Jessica back at home, I don't have much use for ladies of the night."

We both chuckled softly, and then felt a little guilty to be sharing a joke in the company of the deceased. You get used to it. There's a point where death stops getting to you. If you can't laugh about it, you'll go mad. There's only laughter, and beyond that the darkness, and sometimes it's best to forget about what lurks out there.

"Who would know her?" I asked, searching the room for clues, any clues, anything to work on.

"Most of the hookers normally hang out round 4th street," Balder shrugged. "Someone down there's bound to know her."

I nodded, and then stopped at an old faded Gone With The Wind poster. A little watermarked, peeling round the edges, but there was a clear neat hole in Vivien Leigh's eye, the eye that would have stared lovingly into Clark Gable's cold, trusting stare. I had a feeling Vivien's eyes were looking elsewhere.

"Come and take a look at this," I asked Alex.

As my partner advanced, I slid my finger into the neat hole and felt the cool feel of glass, a slightly curved surface. Made sense.

"There's a camera back here," I said. "Katrina was recording her clients."

I took a step back, allowing Alex to look at the evidence. "Look for an entrance," he said, carefully peeling back the poster. "There's probably a back room round here."

I began to search the run down room, scanning the threadbare carpet, the damp-stained plaster walls, the few items of furniture. There was an old chipped wooden-door cupboard against the far wall, adjacent to the camera.

Bingo.

The door opened up on a small room, little more than an alcove that had been hollowed out of the interior of the wall. The camera sat on a tripod, its eye gazing on Alex and the run down room.

I carefully removed it from its place and checked the inside for a tape.

Nothing.

Other than the camera, the room back here was empty. There were no more videos. Whatever the late Miss Demeo had done with her home movies, they were no longer here.

"Just the camera back here," I called out to Alex, and edged back into the room, almost thankful for the space, despite its size. "All the home movies were gone."

Alex was frowning and staring at the hooker's body. "This could be bigger than it looks, Max. We should be careful."

I nodded.

We left forensics to deal with the scene and made our way to 4th Street.

To be continued…