The Cases of Lenora X, Domme Detective: The Cryptic Man, Part 12

Blog City's District 4 precinct house is distinguished from the other old shabby buildings on its block only by the police cars parked all around it and the constant stream of people coming in and out, pretty much 24/7. District 4 covers a big slice of Blog City's night life, legal and otherwise. Being a cop in this part of town is never dull and considered within the Department as the best place to work to get promoted, because of all that action.

Inside, the precinct house is not unlike the outside -- old and shabby and in need of a very good cleaning. I make My way up to the third floor, where Arty Daniels' office is, mindful of the slightly lingering looks from the cops I pass on My way . . . I made sure to dress as non-flashy as possible, but it's not that . . . cops simply can't help themselves. Even the women, I'd noticed.

The one advantage to an old, shabby filthy building filled with cops is that you can smoke wherever you want. I light a cigarette and lean My head into Arty's office to let him know I'm there; I can see he's on the phone. He waves for Me to sit down so I plop down and wait for his call to finish. I blow some smoke towards the ceiling, idly musing that the nicotine stains on the ceiling are a better color than whatever the hell it was originally.

Arty hangs up the phone and looks at Me with that self-satisfied look that tells Me he's got something and can't wait to bring Me in on the big secret.

He lights up and opens a file folder in front of him on the desk.

"OK. I was thinking about the places where we've found the bodies. Professional domination studio, pool hall, restaurant. No connection except all are owned by King. Obvious, but pretty much a dead end. Right?"

I stub out my cigarette in the "Police Tactics Convention, 2002" ashtray and sit up a bit. "Right."

"Well, I got to thinking about that and did some checking. And some digging and talking to sources. And I don't know what it means . . . and maybe it means nothing, but . . . " Arty pauses for dramatic effect.

I lean forward, a little peeved at the theatrics.

Arty lowers his voice a little. "As far as I can tell, X . . . King has been 100% legit for three years . . . maybe longer."

I'm speechless a moment . . . King? Legit? Arty continues, filling the silence. "I can't tie a single illegal thing to him. He was never involved in drugs, that we know of, but there's no prostitution, no illegal gambling places, no loan sharking, no protection shakedowns, no phony contracting schemes . . . nothing. The snitches I talked to have him totally out of the game for a while now."

I turned this over a bit. King, having lots of money but not having the time a young man has, cashes it all out and buys more legitimate businesses, having figured out that they could have a use other then as fronts for laundering money. He lives longer, sleeps better, and sleeps in his palatial triplex overlooking the City instead of on a cot in a cell in BC Correctional.

It wasn't totally far-fetched. Old gangsters are rare . . . King always was plenty smart.

I collected My thoughts and looked Arty. "OK, let's say that's true. What's the connection to the case?"

Arty looked as if he was going to start a long expository speech, then caught himself. "I'm not sure. But it must mean something, right?"

I liked Arty's optimism in the face of the highly random nature of the universe. "If it's someone from his past . . . maybe that person is trying to pull him back into the life, somehow?"

It was more or less plausible but it didn't quite "play." Plus, the cops (and Me) had been over all of King's enemies, real or imagined, with a fine toothed comb.

Sometimes you just know a thing. Arty and I exchanged a glance and it was clear to both of us that for reasons we both knew but couldn't prove in any court, King was not the target. whoever was doing this found a convenient hook to hang these killings on . . . in all likelihood whoever was paying to have these killings done didn't know that King was now 100% solid tax-paying citizen.

I like cases where I have a bad feeling early on, and then gradually it improves. I don't like cases where I have no feeling early on and end up with a bad feeling. I lifted My eyes skyward in silent communication with the dear departed Frankie Boots . . . this one ain't no ground ball, Frankie.

I got up . . . Arty looked he hadn't been expecting Me to leave. I stopped a moment.

"What is it, Arty? Unless you have some other revelation about this case I need to get out of here."

Arty looked at Me impassively. "No . . . just thinking about stuff, that's all." I nodded and walked out of his office.

Thinking about stuff. At times I wish I could just stop thinking about stuff.

* * *

On the way home I called mandy at the office, making Myself feel less guilty about pretty much blowing off work today.

Just hearing mandy's sweet voice brightened my mood. Nothing major -- apparently I picked a good day to play hooky. Mrs. Frankenhauler paid her somewhat large outstanding balance, mandy informed Me; a few weeks ago I'd have been hanging on that news eagerly . . . today it made little difference -- I hadn't even looked in King's last envelope to see how much was in there. I laughed to Myself that I suddenly was the kind of person with large sums of cash laying around her apartment and not even needing to know how much it was. I made a mental note to give mandy Mrs. Frankenhauler's $3,000 as a bonus.

I made another call -- time for the envelopes to stop. If I was convinced King wasn't the target I certainly couldn't keep taking his money.

* * *

This time I insisted we meet in a restaurant that King didn't own. I was feeling self-righteous and feisty and didn't want to be on King's turf at all.

King, perhaps sensing the situation, responded like the masterful tactician he was: he didn't object to My wanting to not eat at one of his places. In fact he embraced the idea . . . and suggested David's.

Fucker. David's served the best steak in the city . . . King knew that I couldn't resist David's. And dinner at David's meant dressing up a bit . . . and he knew, in that place, with its tremendous food and romantic atmosphere, I'd feel more girly, less . . . judgmental, less inclined to really take him to task for withholding something that had to be pertinent to the case.

I got off the phone, parts upset, anxious, pissed off, and excited. Domme Detective X. Remember. Focus. You're angry. No more envelopes. Be firm.

I stopped at a red light and suddenly the only thought I had had to do with what I was going to wear tonight.