The people in the morgue and forensics had done what they could. In record time, they had determined the dental status and posted it online on a dental platform. A Chicago dentist was able to provide information about the patient.
The woman was not from Eastern Europe but from Germany, and her name was Andrea Fischer. In her other life, however, she went by the name Jacqueline. The investigators' suspicions were confirmed: Andrea Fischer worked as a prostitute under the name Jacqueline. Mostly in her own apartment or an hourly hotel, although no signs of struggle or murder were found in her apartment.
After the surveys in the milieu, it was also evident where Jacqueline had worked until recently. Even if the information wasn't entirely watertight, it was worth a try, and Elizabeth's visit to the DA's office would have to wait.
The Velvet Pearl brothel occupied two floors in an old building downtown. Various red hearts flashed penetratingly on some of the windows taped with black film on the first and second floors. The murder of a prostitute, even if no one was quite clear who it was, had quickly made the rounds during the night, although investigators had tried everything to keep the whole thing secret for the time being. But already, in the social media and milieu, there was indeed talk of a Ripper who was now making his bloody rounds in hazy and autumnal Boston instead of in the fog of London.
Elizabeth and Nick had an appointment with Greg and John, the two owners of The Velvet Pearl. Elizabeth had been in such establishments a few times before, but she always felt out of place as a woman and, thus, as a species usually only found on the other side of the glass in such stores. The other women were behind windows, lolling on bar stools in provocative poses. Elizabeth couldn't help but think of the floater's position. The four men stealthily creeping through the corridors eyed the women like merchandise in a shop window and lustfully asked what the ladies were offering and, above all, what they cost. The air was thick with perfume and incense, the light was pink, and the usual equipment of Kleenex, condoms, and paper towels lay at the doors next to the rooms where the action was.
Greg and John, the two heads of the house, welcomed Elizabeth and Nick into their office. Elizabeth and Nick had told the two in advance that none of what was not investigative would be stored or used against them in any way. Potential witnesses who testified with the handbrake on didn't help anyone. The two had a lot on their plate, but it didn't matter now. The office was a small room with a few folders on a desk and a shelf above it. On one wall was a small television with no sound, showing a documentary about the Vatican. Elizabeth had to smile briefly. Fate had a sense of humor.
Greg and John both had many tattoos and concise hair, or no hair at all - "Short hair looks more dangerous, and you can't be pulled on it," John had said. And Nick had grinned.
Besides, by their own admission, even if they didn't look like, they were the good spirits of the house. At least, that's what they thought themselves.
"Good spirits?" asked Elizabeth, sitting with Nick at a table where the coffee maker was. "You mean that?"
"Well, we can become bad spirits, too. Like when people cause trouble around here."
"Like who?" asked Nick with furrowed brows.
"The ... Southerners, for example," John said, pinching his forearm where a giant skull tattoo was emblazoned. "They want to fuck here without a condom for fifty bucks. And then they bitch when it comes to paying."
"How much does it usually cost?" inquired Nick.
"At least a hundred. If you can take more, you take more. The women get to negotiate all that for themselves. We don't interfere with that. The main thing is that the rent is paid. The customers have to want to pay and be able to pay. The cheaper, the more customers."
"The cheaper...?"
"The more fucks."
"So that means per day...?"
"Some whores manage ten clients. Some even more." Elizabeth shook her head. John noticed her look. "With some, it's quick. A quick blow job or hand job. They're through in ten minutes. What else was I going to say?" John looked around. "The ladies have to pay rent here, and they can use everything here. Rooms, linens, cleaner, coffee, condoms. It's all included."
"And who gets more than hundred dollars?" echoed Elizabeth.
"Those who speak fluent English get more. A lot of people don't know English. Those who don't speak, just fuck." John lit a cigarette. "And dommes get more anyway. Which they don't always offer sex."
Nick's eyebrows drew together in surprise. "There are dommes here, too?"
John seemed genuinely proud. "Sure. There are the whole nine yards here! There are dominant whores and slave girls too. The slave girls like to get their asses kicked. Really. Voluntarily. They also like to be beaten up. Most of the Slavias, as they are called, have no father. Or a dysfunctional relationship with him. They mostly want to get beat up."
"That's why?" asked Nick slowly.
John shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a pimp, not a psychologist. Seems like it, though."
"Well, Kate should be here," Elizabeth muttered. "But then we'd have three hours of discussion."
Nick expertly ignored her. "So you guys have a real S studio here?"
John nodded eagerly. "Sure, I'd be happy to show you. Back there, the third room on the left. With St. Andrew's cross, gyno chair, and cage. Even diapers we have there."
Nick made a face. "Uh, thanks; we'll see if we have time later. "Do they have that many condoms at the drugstore?"
"No, but we use the bag for that," Greg said.
Then Nick pulled out a picture. It was the picture of the unnamed junkie still in a coma at Bonnie's ranch. "Have you guys seen this one before?"
Greg and John looked at the picture with squinted eyes.
"Nah!" John, who seemed to be the spokesman, shook his head. "There are guys like that, of course, but that guy looks like something out of Braindead."
"And a guy like that would never come in here either," Greg said. "We still have sometimes. Guys who want to crash here in the hallway. We give them one warning. Then if they're still lying around here, we'll kick their ass!"
"You're not supposed to wait on him," Elizabeth said. "We just need to know if you've seen him."
"And if so, where," Nick added.
"Nah, not him," John said, shaking his head. "Guys like that, but one that looks that bad, we would have noticed him, right?" He looked at Greg. He nodded.
"What about him?" Nick pulled out one of Williams.
They shook their heads. "As a customer, at most. He's a family man with nothing going on at home. We get a lot of that around here. Comes especially with the cab, not his car with a child seat. But a normal cab, not with Uber, where you could trace it. You can already tell by the creeping gait that they have a guilty conscience. It's like they're scared shitless."
"But he doesn't?"
Both men shook their heads.
"And what about her?" It was the picture of Lisa.
"No way, way too young!" Greg and John looked really indignant. "Our women are all twenty-one years old. At least. And have worked as prostitutes before. We don't take newbies!"
Nick rolled his eyes. "You're not supposed to hire her either. The girl's name is Lisa Williams. She's missing. Most likely, she's dead."
John and Greg nodded devoutly.
"Have you guys seen her anywhere?"
"No. But it's not the neighborhood for her, either. She looks more like she came from a good home." John nodded in confirmation.
"Yeah, more like from the suburbs," Greg added.
Not so silly, Elizabeth thought. She nodded at Nick.
He pulled out another picture. The last one. "What about her. Civil name Andrea Fischer."
"Jacqueline," John and Greg said in unison.
"You guys know her?"
"Sure!" said John. "We don't know her! Used to work here!"
Nick's eyebrows drew together. "Not anymore?"
"Nah, it was too expensive for her. Rent and all. Does everything from home now. Wants to save money. Some do. There's a sixty-year-old girl across the street. Takes sixty dollars, and people are really into it. It has its drawbacks, though." John felt a pair of brass knuckles lying on the table. "There's no one to watch you anymore."
"I guess that would have been better," Elizabeth said.
John raised his eyebrows. "Did something happen to her?"
Nick nodded slowly. "She's dead. Murdered, by the looks of it."
Greg was wide awake. "Is this the dead hooker everyone's talking about?"
Elizabeth took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "That's what I'm afraid of." Why would she lie?
John stood almost upright. "What, from who? Where?"
"Sorry," she replied, "we can't tell you details. You can still help us, though."
"Sure, we will. What do you want to know?"
"Have there been any anomalies lately? When Jacqueline was still with you? Any customers --"
"Johns, you mean?"
"Right, johns who were with her. Anything out of the ordinary?"
"Actually, Jacqueline was quite normal, wasn't she?" John looked at Greg. "Normal johns, for some of them, she had to play the strict mother for a change. The usual games that is. But otherwise pretty normal. Even blowjobs only with a condom, kissing only when sympathetic, and so on. In this respect, her clients were also rather the normal types."
They were silent for a while. Greg and John looked devoutly at the ceiling. "But wait a minute!" exclaimed Greg. "The guy with the jewelry! Smiley."
"What did he do?" asked Elizabeth with furrowed brows. "And why was his name Smiley?" She made a quick note.
"Oh, there was this guy who gave her jewelry once. He was called Smiley because he always grinned so stupidly. Just gave the ladies jewelry. But that happens sometimes."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know, I'd have to see a picture. Rather bland, a little fat. Blond, sparse hair, a little gray, maybe about forty." Greg looked at John, and he nodded to the activity. "Thick glasses. Real glass bricks."
"Do you think the man might have had something to do with the murder?"
John gave a crowing laugh. "Him? Way too harmless. Although you never know, I really can't imagine that. There was some uptight guy, you know. Who can't get a woman and has to go to a whorehouse. But the whorehouse is too unromantic for him, so he brings the ladies gifts so that it looks a bit like a real date. It happens more often."
Elizabeth frowned a little. "What kind of jewelry was that?"
"I don't know, I don't know about that. Feel free to ask the other ladies when they have time. They could describe this guy better, too.
"We still need you at BPD for a sketch."
"That's all?" John looked alarmed.
Elizabeth nodded reassuringly. "That's all."
"You got it."
"He was rather harmless, you say?" She checked again. The ones who looked so harmless, greeting nicely and organizing donations for Syria, often had the body parts in the fridge.
"Yeah, there's some of those guys from Back Bay who get a fuck now and then. We all know them." Greg looked at John. He nodded. "Casino Peter, Heavy Tobias, Hooker Alfred, and Tray Henry and all their names."
"And what was this one called? Just Smiley?"
"I don't know. Never introduced himself to us. We only knew his nickname. And that was just Smiley."
Elizabeth frowned deeply. "And they're all harmless?"
"Yes. We don't tolerate people who cause trouble here, either. If one comes here looking for stress, then --"
"... he gets one in the face," Nick added.
"Well, first, he gets a friendly announcement. And then, if he's still hanging around, he'll get one on the chin! That's right!" John nodded in confirmation.
"You're going to punch him in the face?" asked Nick, who seemed quite comfortable with this parallel justice.
"Greg or me. But then do it right." John nodded. Almost good-naturedly, Elizabeth thought. "He'll be wearing the nose on the back of his head from then on!"
Elizabeth looked at Nick and raised her eyebrows, meaning: Any more questions? He shook his head. Elizabeth and Nick stood up. "Thank you very much in advance. We'll need you again later for the sketch," she said. "But right now, we'd like to talk to the ladies."
"Go ahead." John rose as well and opened the door. "The ones hanging out in the window are free. You can talk to them."