Magie Noire

By Rurouni Star

Chapter Four

They say the first forty-eight hours in a murder are the most important. My experience more-or-less bears that out. If you don't find a solid suspect within about two days, you start running into problems as people's memories get hazy, the crime scene starts getting stale, and everyone involved in an ancillary fashion just kind of moves on with their lives. Close friends and family might linger obsessively over a case for years, but everyone else just wants to forget about death as soon as humanly possible.

Because of this, Carmichael and I probably weren't going to see a bed until at least the next day.

"If we've got positive ID on Stanton, that's enough to get a warrant for her home," Carmichael said, as we reconnoitred with our respective information. "I'll put that through tonight, see if it comes in by morning. Meantime, Vice says the girls at the Velvet Room are probably gonna keep their lips sealed. Madame Bianca's not a talkative sort, and she leans pretty hard on 'em. I've got names for a few of the girls, though, if we still wanna try that angle."

I frowned. "I might be able to get something with a less direct approach," I said. "I can come off less threatening than a guy cop. That leaves you with the mobsters, though. You good with that?"

Carmichael shrugged. "Marcone's probably gonna button them down too, given that we're not kowtowing to him. But I'll go through the motions, see if any of 'em let something slip."

I chewed on my lip, turning over the problem of Madame Bianca in my mind. "Hey, can you look something up for me?" I asked him. "I want to know if Jennifer had any female relatives."

Carmichael raised an eyebrow. "I'm not your secretary," he said, though his tone was more curious than belligerent. "Why don't you look it up yourself?"

I gave him a flat look. "Me and the computer still haven't made up," I told him. "I don't want to give it the wrong idea."

Carmichael grinned. "All right, I'll sweet talk the machine for you," he said. "Give me a second."

0-0-0-0

If I was walking anywhere near the Velvet Room, I knew I had to tell the Lieutenant. This didn't please me, mostly because I avoided his office whenever that was humanly possible.

Lieutenant Noah Walker was a relatively young appointment. He'd scaled his way up the ladder through Robbery in record time, then jumped inadvisably at the chance to make Lieutenant, regardless of department. It hadn't taken him long in Special Investigations to realize his error; everyone in the trenches knew he was desperate to make a good impression on the higher-ups so he could get out again, before his career became too tarnished. That meant good stats and closed cases. Taken to its logical conclusion, that meant finding fall guys, pinning crimes on them, and making up stories out of whole cloth.

Obviously, I didn't play those games — and everyone in S.I. knew I wouldn't look the other way if other people played them. This meant that as far as Lieutenant Walker was concerned, I was enemy number one.

"Detective," he said, as I made my way into his office. "Got good news for me on the double-homicide, I hope?"

I smiled tightly. "I do," I said. "We've positively identified the woman as Jennifer Stanton. Word is she worked at the Velvet Room. I'm going to head down there and try to get some information out of her coworkers. I figured I ought to let you know if I'm gonna be hanging out near a highly illegal brothel."

Walker smiled back at me without humor. We both knew there was no love lost between us. He was a tall, athletic man — when he stood up straight, he had a good foot and change on me. But there was no sign of grey in his chestnut brown hair, and very few lines on his fresh face. His lack of experience was and would remain painfully obvious until he aged naturally. That gave me a strange upper hand in the power balance between us. I knew he hated that.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said. I gave him a stony look, but didn't say what I was thinking. I wasn't sure where Walker's moral bottom line actually fell.

Another thought inevitably occurred to me as I considered him. Walker was ambitious. He might have been the sort to deal with Marcone, if the price was right. And Marcone certainly seemed willing to go to great lengths to get in on this case.

I shook my head slightly. There was no avoiding it. I was going to be wondering about everyone in S.I. until this case was done — and probably longer than that.

A frown creased the Lieutenant's face. "Anything else, Detective Murphy?" he asked. There was a hint of irritation in his tone now.

"Not yet," I told him. "You'll be the first to know."

As I headed out of his office, I couldn't help but wonder whether Marcone would be second, no matter what I did.

0-0-0-0

The Velvet Room was known as a private club, which mostly served to keep the police off the premises without very good reason. You needed a membership to get in, and the mansion Bianca ran it from was technically classified as private property. In order to get in to talk to the girls who were working that night, I needed either a warrant or an invitation.

The good news was that all I wanted was off-the-record information, useful for expanding my investigation to other areas. I didn't need to search the place, or arrest anyone. That meant I was free to lie my ass off.

I parked a few blocks away from the mansion and unclipped my badge from my belt, stashing it in the side pocket of a purse I'd grabbed from lost and found. I loosened up my button-down shirt and threw on a light bit of makeup, purposely smearing my eyeliner and mascara. Sometimes, it wasn't the worst thing in the world to be cute as a button. No one ever accused cute women of being cops.

I had to work to change my posture as I walked the rest of the way to the mansion. I still practiced regular Aikido; that, along with the years of copwork, gave me a kind of distinctive stance. I tried to close up my body language and shrink my presence, but I knew I was only going to be so successful at it. The smeared makeup would hopefully hold enough attention that no one looked too hard at my posture. Crying women flip a switch in certain people's brains that makes it difficult for them to stay on-script.

The mansion was surrounded by an iron fence with a single gate. The security guard on the other side was big and blocky, wearing an appropriately stiff suit. He narrowed his eyes at me as I approached, but his hackles weren't raised the same way they would have been if I'd been a man.

"Ma'am," he said, as I got close. "Unless you've got an appointment, I'm gonna have to ask you to move along."

I forced a sniffle. "I… I, um." I swallowed. "I don't have an appointment. I… I just want to talk to someone, please. I'm Jenny's sister."

The guard's attitude changed very slightly. He softened in spite of himself. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Miss…?"

"Monica," I said, using the name I'd had Carmichael dig up for me. "Please, I'm begging you. I don't want to make trouble, I just… I just need to know what happened. Can you just ask if I can come in, please?"

The guard sighed heavily. "I'll ask," he said, capitulating. "But I'm not gonna promise anything. If the answer is no, I need you to move along."

I nodded in what I hoped was a miserable manner, as the guard pulled out his cell phone and stepped away from the gate to make a call.

I strained to listen in, but I couldn't catch more than a word or two. It was a short conversation, at least — and as the guard closed his phone, I watched his posture shift subconsciously to something a little bit more welcoming. Jackpot, I thought.

The guard unlocked the gate, and reached out to offer me an arm. "You can come in," he said carefully. "But we're heading in the back. We'll find you something to wipe down your face, and you can have a chat with Bianca." He paused, and glanced at my purse. "I'll have to take a look in there as well," he said. His voice was apologetic.

I passed him the purse, trying not to panic. Thankfully, he only took a cursory glance inside, without checking the pockets. He passed it back, and my heart slowed down to a normal pace once more.

I took his arm, and waited for him to lock up the gate behind me. I wasn't thrilled to be talking to the Madame directly — she was more likely to be cagey with me than one of the girls would have been — but it was still probably further than a male detective like Carmichael would have gotten.

True to his word, the guard took me through a servant's entrance. Some of these old mansions still had them; little out-of-the-way doors with narrow staircases that kept you out of view of the house's main area. Bianca probably didn't want a distressed-looking woman in plain view in her brothel, in case someone thought I was a mistreated girl.

The inside of the mansion was fancy, roomy, dimly-lit. I heard the distant but very distinct sounds of sex through the wall as we walked. I tried to keep my eyes on the floor, but I couldn't help sizing up the place as I went, counting potential exits in case things went sideways. Marcone's comment stuck in my head. It's a good place to go get yourself killed.

He'd told the truth about Jennifer Stanton. He might well have been telling the truth about the Velvet Room, too.

The guard dropped me off at a private bathroom, where I proceeded to scrub away the makeup I'd just applied. I took in a deep breath as mascara ran down into the marble sink. I rarely did undercover work. I wasn't sure I was up to the task of pretending to be someone else for an entire conversation. But I'd handed the bad news over to family members often enough that I hoped I could bluff the right reactions.

I tried thinking of Dad — of the way I'd felt when they gave me the news. But that wasn't right. I'd been halfway expecting that news for a long time, deep down, so I wasn't surprised in the same way that happens with sudden murder.

I stared myself down in the mirror. Come on, I thought. Be upset. Be devastated. You can do this.

It was no use, though. I'd all but burned those emotions out of myself. All I had left was a cold, practical approach to death that absolutely wouldn't serve me here.

I sighed. I'd have to pretend to be numb instead. It was a valid way to grieve, but people didn't react to it as well. Television and movies had convinced people that when someone died, you had to be visibly upset. Life was weirder than fiction.

I headed out of the bathroom, and found myself taken into custody by a short-haired woman, rather than the guard that had first escorted me. She offered me a sad smile, and took me by the hand. I briefly wondered if she was Madame Bianca, but I decided that she was too young, and not quite well-dressed enough.

"I'm so sorry," she told me softly. I felt a little pang of guilt, though the greater part of me knew I was here for good reasons. I nodded listlessly, thinking through the questions I wanted to ask.

"Did… did you know her?" I asked, keeping my voice very quiet.

"Yeah, honey. We're friends. I mean, um. We were." The thought seemed to distress her. "I'm Rachel."

"Monica," I repeated. "Do you know what happened? The police wouldn't tell me much, they just kept asking questions. But they said she was… that it wasn't an accident."

Rachel looked down. "I think she was at a hotel with a client," she admitted. "They probably didn't want to shock you. I don't know the details, but it wouldn't surprise me if she got caught in some crossfire. Tommy Tomm's a sweet guy, but he's got a lot of enemies."

About what I figured so far, I thought. But at least I'd confirmed that Tommy Tomm was a client, and that Bianca knew about him. If someone wanted at the mobster while he was vulnerable, Bianca would be a great person to bribe for that opportunity.

Rachel led me to a library. It looked like something out of a different era — great big tomes lined the walls, and an antique table sat near the center, with two high-backed leather chairs on either side.

"You just have a seat," Rachel told me. "Bianca's in the middle of something, but she's gonna come as soon as she can, okay?"

I did my best to look forlorn and uncertain. "Would you mind staying with me?" I asked. I was fairly certain Bianca hadn't left me anywhere with any interesting evidence to snoop on, so keeping Rachel for further questions seemed like the better bet.

Rachel hesitated. I could see that she wanted to say yes, but she sighed and shook her head. "I wish I could," she told me. "But I've got an appointment. I'm so sorry."

I nodded dully, and she shot me another hesitant smile. "I hope you get what you need," she said.

I paused… then pulled a piece of scrap paper and a pen from my borrowed purse. "Would you mind if I got your number?" I asked.

Rachel hesitated again. She glanced toward the door. But ultimately, she stepped forward and took the pen, scribbling some numbers down. "You can call after lunch most days," she said. "I sleep late."

I nodded gratefully, and she headed for the door.

As the door closed, I considered the library again. Normally, I wouldn't be paranoid enough to consider surveillance, but in a brothel, such measures might well be merited. I shoved to my feet and drifted around the room, trying to look like a restless, aimless visitor.

The books weren't there for show. I was expecting lots of encyclopedias, but instead I found legitimately old texts in a variety of languages. I knew just enough Latin from my interactions with lawyers to recognize its presence, but not enough to translate the book titles. My high school French served me a little bit better as I noted something called Le sommaire philosophique. A bit of puzzling translated it out to The Philosophical Summary. I wasn't sure of its significance, except that it probably meant Madame Bianca was much better-read than I'd have expected of a high-class pimp.

The door opened again as I was contemplating a title in German.

There was absolutely no mistaking Madame Bianca. She was much younger than I'd expected, but every inch of her screamed of wealth and power. Her pale skin was utterly unblemished, untanned; her long auburn hair was immaculately dyed with expensive-looking highlights. Her long black dress looked like a designer-grade creation, and her tall heels were nothing I'd ever seen on a department store shelf. She carried a presence with her that utterly possessed the room the moment that she entered.

"Monica?" she asked me. Her voice was deep and pleasant. It had the capacity to be sultry, but the Madame had briefly struck a professional-but-mildly-sympathetic tone.

I stepped away from the shelf, allowing a little sheepishness onto my face. "Yes," I said. "I'm sorry. I can't seem to stay still."

Bianca smiled at me. The expression was utterly manufactured. There was something about her dark eyes that I greatly didn't like. She closed the door behind her, heels clicking sharply along the floor. "Of course, dear," she said. "Please, have a seat. You look like you could use a drink. Would you like some port?"

I headed for the chair, and sank back down into it. I shook my head. "No, thank you. I… I have to drive back."

Bianca smiled again. Her teeth were too white, I thought. "I'll pour myself a glass," she said. "And one for you — just in case you change your mind. I don't feel polite drinking alone."

I stayed quiet as she went to a small, chilled cabinet inset into one of the shelves. She poured two tiny, glittering crystal glasses of port, and sashayed over with one in each hand. She set one down in front of me, and took a sip of her own, before settling into the chair across from me.

Bianca crossed her legs in a fashion so seductive that it had to be second-nature to her, and I was immediately glad that I'd come, instead of Carmichael.

She waited for me to speak first. I cursed inwardly. It was always better to let other people guide the conversation. They gave away more that way. But Bianca seemed well aware of that concept.

"...I got a call that Jenny… that something happened to her," I said. "No one would give me any real details, though, other than… that she passed away. And that it wasn't natural causes. I thought someone here might know what happened."

Bianca took a long, considering sip of her port. Her lips were a slash of vivid, unnatural red, but she didn't leave lipstick on the rim. "I'm afraid I don't know very much either, dear," Bianca told me sympathetically. "The police haven't talked to me about it. It didn't happen here."

I nodded slowly, chewing over my approach. "If… if it was related to what she did for you… you would do something about that, wouldn't you?"

Bianca leaned her elbow onto the arm of the chair, and pressed her chin into her hand. "I am very protective of my employees," she said. "Jennifer was very good at what she did. She will be difficult to replace. I intend to do everything in my power to find the person responsible." Those dark eyes flickered over me appraisingly in a way that I didn't much like. "You're very sweet-looking, Monica," she purred. "If you wanted to help me find your sister's killer, you could work with me for a bit."

The forwardness of it flabbergasted me for a second. For someone who professed to care about her employees, Bianca had certainly put up a job offer in short order. Not to mention the sheer callousness of trying to take advantage of a grieving sister's distress. I found myself incredibly furious on Monica's behalf for a second, before I managed to remind myself that Jennifer's real sister wasn't here at all, and was in fact sleeping cozy with her husband and her two little children in some suburban house just north of us.

"I don't know if I could do that." It took work to force the words out without letting my sudden loathing for the woman color my voice. I wasn't entirely sure that I'd managed it. "What would it involve?"

Bianca considered me for a moment. "Monica," she said softly. "Would you look at me?"

I lifted my eyes to hers. In the dim light, I thought they were even blacker than before. I couldn't even see the whites of her eyes. I shuddered involuntarily. There was something really, truly empty about those eyes. I felt myself being drawn into them, the longer I looked.

"Are you hiding something from me?" Bianca asked.

I felt a strange pressure on my mind. I couldn't look away. I was stuck in those pitch-black pools of darkness. I struggled beneath the weight of that gaze, trying to claw my way out of it.

Shit, I thought. Oh shit. Am I having a throwback? Is the Three-Eye getting to me?

"What is this?" Bianca's voice sounded distant, distorted. "What are you hiding, Monica?"

Her voice twisted. There was a hiss to it now. No, there had always been a hiss to it — I just hadn't noticed it before. There was a snarl to her blood-red lips. Even as I watched, it expanded, consuming her face, until all that was left was an ugly bat-like creature, its canines sharp and wicked. Strange, membranous wings stretched between the joints of its arms.

"Monica?" the voice hissed.

I stopped breathing.