“If you like gritty thrillers with well drawn characters, a story that grabs you…and doesn’t let go, a compelling mystery and spot on dialogue, you will love Eyes Closed Tight…”

The most powerful work to date by Peter Leonard, one of the most thrilling suspense novelists of our time, EYES CLOSED TIGHT is relentless, surprising, and deeply satisfying.

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Eyes Closed Tight

by Peter Leonard

Copyright © 2014 by Peter Leonard and published here with his permission

ONE

O’Clair got up, put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, glanced at Virginia’s cute face and naked shoulder sticking out from under the covers, and went outside. It was seven twenty-five, big orange sun coming up over the ocean, clear sky; looked like another perfect day. O’Clair had moved to Florida from Detroit three months earlier, bought an eighteen-unit motel on the beach called Pirate’s Cove; it had a friendly pirate on the sign surrounded by neon lights.

The motel was at the corner of Briny Avenue and SE Fifth Street in Pompano Beach. Four-story condo to the north and public beach access immediately south, and next to that, a massive empty lot that a developer was going to build a twenty-five-story apartment building on.

The idea of living through two years of heavy construction had O’Clair concerned, but what could he do about it?

He’d brought a paper grocery bag with him and walked around the pool, picking up empties, a dozen or so lite beer cans left by a group of kids from Boston University who’d been staying at the motel the past three days. There were nine of them, three girls and six guys. They’d caravanned down from snowy Massachusetts a week after Christmas.

He fished a few more beer cans out of the pool with the skimmer, picked up cigarette butts that had been stamped out on the concrete patio, and threw them in the bag with the empties. O’Clair straightened the lounge chairs in even rows, adjusted the back rests so they were all at the same angle, and noticed one of the chairs was missing. He scanned the pool area, didn’t see it, glanced over the short brick wall that separated the motel from the beach and there it was, twenty yards from where he was standing.

O’Clair kicked off his sandals, opened the gate and walked down three steps to the beach. As he got closer, he could see a girl asleep, stretched out on the lounge chair, one leg straight, the other slightly bent at the knee, arms at her sides. She was a knockout, long blonde hair, thin and stacked, wearing a white T-shirt and denim capris, early twenties. He didn’t recognize her, but figured she was with the group from Boston. She looked so peaceful he didn’t want to wake her. “You should go to your room,” O’Clair said, looking down at her.

The girl didn’t respond. He touched her shoulder, shook her gently. Either she was a heavy sleeper or something was wrong. He touched her neck, felt for a pulse, there wasn’t one. Her skin was cold, body starting to stiffen, definitely in the early stages of rigor. He looked at the sand around the lounge chair, surprised it was smooth, no footprints. Glanced toward the water at the joggers and walkers moving by. O’Clair went back up to the patio, wiped the sand off his feet, and slipped his sandals on.

Virginia was standing behind the registration counter, yawning, eyes not quite open all the way, holding a mug of coffee.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“There’s a dead girl on the beach.” O’Clair said, picking up the phone and dialing 911.

Virginia’s face went from a half smile, thinking he was kidding, to deadpan, seeing he wasn’t. “What happened?”

*

The cruiser was white with gold and green stripes that ran along the side, light bar flashing. O’Clair watched it pull up in front, taking up three parking spaces. Two young-looking cops in tan uniforms got out and squared the caps on their heads. O’Clair went outside, met them and introduced himself.

“You the one found the body?” Officer Diaz, the dark- skinned cop said.

O’Clair nodded.

“You know her?” Diaz pulled the brim lower over his eyes to block the morning sun, the top of a crisp white T-shirt visible under the uniform.

“At first I thought she was with the group from BU. Now I don’t think so.”

“What’s BU?” the big, pale one, Officer Bush said, showing his weightlifter’s arms, uniform shirt bulging over his gut.

“Boston University. Nine kids staying with us, units seventeen and eighteen.” O’Clair didn’t know the sleeping arrangements and didn’t care. They were paying $720 a night for two rooms, staying for five days.

An EMS van pulled up and parked facing the police cruiser. Two paramedics got out, opened the rear door, slid the gurney out, and O’Clair led them through the breezeway, past the pool, to the beach. The paramedics set the gurney next to the lounge chair, examined the girl and pronounced her dead.

Officer Bush said, “What time did you find her?”

“Around twenty to eight.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I looked at my watch,” O’Clair said, like it was a big mystery.

Diaz grinned, showing straight white teeth, reminding O’Clair of Erik Estrada, his tan polyester uniform glinting in the morning sun. “Did you touch the body?”

“Her neck, felt for a pulse.” O’Clair saw Virginia wander down, standing at the seawall with her cup of coffee, watching them. Officer Bush went back to the cruiser and got stakes and tape, then set up a perimeter around the dead girl, protecting the crime scene. The paramedics picked up the gurney and left, leaving the body for the evidence tech.

Diaz took a spiral-bound notebook out of his shirt pocket, wrote something and looked up at O’Clair. “Ever see her before? Maybe lying in the sun, walking the beach?”

“I don’t think so,” O’Clair said. “Someone like that I would remember.”

Diaz said, “You see anyone else?”

“College kids out by the pool.” He almost said drinking beer, but caught himself, he doubted they were twenty-one and didn’t want to get them in trouble.

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“Then what happened?”

“I went to bed.”

Diaz said, “Anything else you remember? Any noises?”

“No.”

The evidence tech arrived carrying a tool box, set it on the sand a few feet from the lounge chair, opened it, took out a camera, and shot the crime scene from various angles. Diaz searched the surrounding area for evidence and Bush questioned the morning joggers and walkers wandering up toward the scene. O’Clair watched from the patio, leaning against the seawall. Virginia had gone back to the office.

A guy in a tan, lightweight suit walked by O’Clair and went down the steps to the beach. He had to be with homicide. The evidence tech, wearing white rubber gloves, was swabbing the dead girl’s fingernails. He glanced at the guy in the suit.

“What do you got?”

“Fatal.”

“I figured that unless you were doing her nails.”

“Not much here,” the evidence tech said, “couple hairs, maybe a latent, and something you’re not going to believe.” He whispered something to the suit that O’Clair couldn’t hear.

“Jesus, I’ve seen a lot, but I haven’t seen that.” The homicide investigator shook his head. “Where’s the blood?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“How’d she die?”

“You want a guess? That’s about all I can give you right now. She was asphyxiated, been gone about four hours.”

“Who found her?”
The evidence tech turned and pointed at O’Clair above them on the patio. The detective came up the steps and stood facing him.

“I’m Holland, Pompano Beach Homicide.” He had a goatee and a crooked nose, early thirties. “What’s your name, sir?”

“O’Clair.”

“I understand you found her.”

“That’s right.”

“You down here for a vacation, or what?”

“I own the place, bought it three months ago.”

“Where you from, Cleveland, Buffalo, someplace like that?”

“Detroit,” O’Clair said.

“Even worse,” Holland said, breaking into a grin. “Just kidding. I got nothing against the Motor City.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” O’Clair said.

Holland wore his shield on his belt and a holstered Glock on his right hip.

“You married?”

“Living with a girl named Virginia, helps me run the place.”

“The hot number in the office?”

O’Clair fixed a hard stare on him.

“How’d you arrange that?”

“I must have some hidden talents.”

“You must,” Holland said. “Tell me what you saw this morning.”

“Same thing you did—dead girl on a lounge chair,” O’Clair said. “Know who she is?”

“No ID. No idea. Have to check with missing persons. Was the chair left on the beach?”

“It shouldn’t have been. The lounge chairs are supposed to be kept in the pool enclosure. It’s one of our rules here at Pirate’s Cove.”

“Your guests break the rules very often?”

“Oh, you know how it is. Get in the Jacuzzi with a beer, without taking a shower, and you’ve broken two right there.” O’Clair paused, playing it straight. “The rules are from the previous owner, guy named Moran. I keep them posted ’cause I think they’re funny. Someone sat down and wrote them in all seriousness.”

“What do you think happened? This girl was walking by and got tired, saw your place, went up, got a lounge chair, brought it to the beach, lay down, and died in her sleep?”

“I’d ask the medical examiner.”

The evidence tech was taking off the rubber gloves, closing the top of the tool box.

Holland said, “What else did you see?”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” O’Clair said. “It’s not what I saw, it’s what I didn’t see.”

“Okay. What didn’t you see?”

“There were no footprints in the sand. Like she was beamed there.”

“So the wind erased them,” Holland said.

“You really believe that?”

“It’s the only plausible explanation I can think of.”

“What else didn’t you see?”

“No obvious cause of death. No evidence of a struggle. In fact, no evidence at all.” O’Clair looked at Holland, caught something in his expression.

“You sound like you know the trade,” Holland said. “What’d you do before you became an innkeeper?”

“Worked homicide in Detroit.”

Holland grinned. “I had a feeling. Then you must’ve seen her eyes were missing, right? Bulbs removed, empty sockets.”

“But no blood,” O’Clair said. “So it was done somewhere else. Find the primary crime scene, you’ll find the evidence.”

“You weren’t going to say anything?”

“It’s not my case,” O’Clair said. “I figured somebody was going to notice sooner or later, it wasn’t you or the evidence tech it would’ve been the ME.”

“Why do you think the girl ended up here?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you roll her over, maybe you’ll find something.”

Occasionally there was a crucial piece of evidence under the body, a lead. It could be a round that would be tested for ballistics comparison against other homicides. It could be money or drugs, suggesting a possible motive, or it could be a cell phone that would lead to the possible killer or killers.

But there was nothing under the dead girl. No ID. No cell phone. Her body was bagged and the remains taken to the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office. They took O’Clair’s lounge chair too.

“It’s evidence,” Holland said. “You’ll get it back eventually.”

O’Clair doubted it. He knew what happened to evidence.

Bush and Diaz went upstairs, woke the BU students, and brought them down to the pool, nine kids looking hung over, yawning. Eight twenty in the morning was the middle of the night for them. O’Clair had noticed they usually didn’t get up till after noon. Holland questioned them one by one, showed photos of the dead girl, took statements, and sent them back to their rooms. No one knew or had ever seen the girl before. No one had seen anything suspicious or heard anything during the night.

The MacGuidwins from Mt. Pearl, Newfoundland in unit two, who had complained about the students making too much noise, were questioned next by Holland. O’Clair watched the fair-skinned, red-haired couple shaking their heads.

As it got hotter, Holland commandeered unit seven for his makeshift interrogation room and brought the other renters in two-by-two for questioning. There were the Burnses, Susan and Randy, from Troy, Michigan; the Mitchells, Joe and Jean, from San Antonio, Texas; the Belmonts, John and Shannon, from Chicago, Illinois; and the Mayers, Steve and Julie, from Syracuse, New York. Steve Mayer woke up with four-alarm heartburn at three-thirty a.m., got up, took a Nexium, walked out by the pool and remembered seeing the lounge chair on the beach, but didn’t think anything of it. None of the other renters saw or heard anything.

O’Clair walked Holland out to his car at eleven twenty, glad to finally get rid of him.

“Miss the life?” Holland said.

“Are you kidding?”

“Some things about it I’ll bet.” He handed O’Clair a card. “Call me if you think of something.”

*

She drove back from her date with Skip in Miami. What kind of fifty-year-old man calls himself Skip? God he was boring, too, talking about injection-molded parts his former company made.

“Like what?”

He’d put his champagne flute down, eyes lit up and said, “Escutcheon plates, center console assemblies, and sail panels.”

She was sorry she’d asked.

“We had twenty-five presses ranging in size from fifty-five tons to fifteen hundred.”

“Wow.”

“Wow is right. We cranked out thousands of parts a day.” She thought Skip might soil himself he was so excited.

The pros: she’d only been with him an hour or so and had made twelve hundred dollars. The cons: he was boring and he had bad breath.

*

Now she was on Interstate 95, almost to Pompano, took the Atlantic Boulevard exit and decided to stop at Publix to pick up a bottle of wine and some groceries. She pulled in and had her pick of spaces in the almost empty lot, went in and bought a few things. When she came out there was a man on crutches moving slowly, trying to carry a plastic grocery bag in his right hand holding onto the crutch. She caught up to him and said, “Looks like you can use some help.”

“If you could grab the bag.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Right here,” he said, stopping behind a silver Buick.

She took the grocery bag from him. “What happened to your foot?”

“Ruptured Achilles.”

“Oh that must hurt.” Now she recognized him. He was a client. They’d met at the Ritz-Carlton in Lauderdale. She couldn’t think of his name, and wondered if she should say something.

He pressed a button on the key fob he was holding and the trunk popped open. She reached in and put the bag in the trunk, then felt a wet cloth pressed on her face, it smelled sweet. She tried to fight but didn’t have the strength. She started to fade and felt him lift her off the ground.

TWO

Frank had flown from Detroit to Fort Lauderdale right after Christmas. He wanted to see the houses and get the lay of the land. He’d put deposits on three, renting each for the month of January. Then he sat on the beach behind the Pirate’s Cove under an umbrella, watching the activity around the pool with binoculars, guests swimming and sitting in the sun.

O’Clair appeared occasionally, looking different. He’d traded his cheap suits in for shorts and T-shirts. Frank got a kick out of seeing the ex-homicide detective doing menial work, cleaning the pool and straightening the lounge chairs, jobs that seemed more suited to his IQ.

Frank enjoyed watching the good-looking, dark-haired girl who worked there. He would see her come out of the office to talk to O’Clair, or appear with a tool box in her hand apparently on her way to fix something. And there was the maid with her sultry good looks. She would arrive in the morning at 8:30, wearing a bright-colored island dress and a straw hat. Something about her excited him.

That night Frank had gone online and found Glamor Girls Escorts, South Florida’s premier escort service. He studied the faces of the girls in the gallery, liked one named Ashley, clicked on her, and there were eight more photos of her. The usual stuff: dressed up, undressed, and everything in between. He filled out an online application in his real name with his business and credit card information, e-mail address, and phone number. One of the questions: Had he ever been arrested? Although Frank had, he said no.

His application was accepted and he made a date with Ashley. The escort service booked a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Fort Lauderdale. All he had to do was arrive at the pre-arranged time and Ashley would be waiting for what was sure to be a memorable evening.

*

Frank rang the bell and the door opened. She looked better in person, blonde hair up, wearing a cocktail dress.

He stepped in and she closed the door and offered her hand. “I’m Ashley.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Frank.”

“That’s not the name they told me.”

“It’s my nickname.”

The floor was marble. She led him into an elegant eight-hundred-square-foot living room with off-white chairs and couch on an Oriental rug and a wall of glass that looked out at the ocean. He sat on the couch and she sat next to him, close but not too close. There was a bottle of Krug champagne that had already been opened in an ice bucket on the coffee table, next to it was a half-full flute with lipstick on the rim and an empty one.

“I started without you. I hope you don’t mind. Would you like some?”

Frank nodded. She picked up the empty flute, grabbed the neck of the bottle, pulled it out of the bucket, filled the flute halfway and handed it to him. She put the bottle back in the bucket, picked up her glass, clinked his, and said, “To us.”

Frank sipped the champagne and sat back. “You’ve got good taste.”

“I think it’s a great way to get things going.” Ashley smiled, showing perfect teeth and red lips, leaning forward, long, tan legs coming out of the black cocktail dress. “So what do you do?”

“I can see this was a mistake. My wife died a few months ago. I thought I was ready, but I’m not.” He put the flute on the coffee table and stood up.

“If I did something to offend you, I apologize.”

“It’s not you, it’s me. You’re a very pretty girl.” He started moving toward the door.

“If you change your mind, please ask for me again.”

*

It was dark when Frank went out and got his car. He told the valet he was waiting for someone, parked the Lacrosse on the side of the driveway, and waited. Fifteen minutes later Ashley walked out of the hotel and handed her ticket to the valet. She had changed into jeans and a blouse, a big purse slung over one shoulder.

He followed her Mercedes sedan to the Harbor Cove condos in Pompano right on the Intracoastal. She parked in a space that said: Reserved for 3C. He watched her enter the building, waited, and saw a light go on in a third-floor condo. He went to the building entrance and checked the directory. G. McMillen was in 3C. He wondered what the “G” stood for. It had cost him twenty-five hundred to find out where she lived, but it was worth every penny.

*

Frank was waiting in the condo parking lot the next evening at five forty-five when G. McMillen, aka Ashley, appeared, coming out of the building, carrying the shoulder bag. He followed her south on I-95, bumper-to-bumper traffic, trying to stay close without making it obvious. An hour later she got off the highway and drove to the W Hotel in South Beach. It looked like she had another client and he had no idea how long she would be. What if she spent the night? He parked on the street with a view of the hotel entrance. At eight o’clock he got out of the car, walked down Collins Avenue to a restaurant, picked up a Cuban sandwich and a Coke to go, and went back to the car and ate.

A little after nine she walked out of the hotel. Frank held binoculars, zooming and holding on her face. He saw the Mercedes pull up, saw her get in, and saw it come toward him along the circular drive. He followed her back to Pompano, thinking he might have an opportunity at the condo when she parked her car. Instead of going straight back she stopped at the Publix on Atlantic Boulevard.

Frank parked next to her, put on the walking boot, and poured chloroform on a handkerchief. He had bought it from an online dental supply company, eight ounces for $63.23. It smelled sweet, which surprised him. He got out, popped the trunk, and took out the crutches and a plastic Publix bag that held a six-pack of Coke. He made his way to the store entrance, looked through the big window, and saw Ashley at a register paying for a few things. He was moving toward the car when she came up behind him, and the rest was history.

*

Frank backed into the garage, put the door down, and opened the trunk. She was still unconscious. He lifted her out, carried her to the work bench, and tied her wrists and ankles together. He clamped the rebar in the jaws of the vise, and cut an eight-inch piece with the hacksaw and brushed the shavings onto the garage floor.

She was trying to open her eyes, lids fluttering, head sagging to the left, trying to fight the anesthetic. It took a few minutes and when she was fully awake she said, “Frank, I’m flattered you wanted to see me again.”

He wasn’t expecting that.

“I liked you. I was hoping you’d call.”

He had kidnapped her and tied her up and she was grinning and coming onto him. “What’s your name?”

“Ashley.”

“Your real name.”

She told him.

“I like that. You’re the girl next door, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.”

“Not really, you’re a prostitute.”

“I’m an escort. If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t have met.”

This whore was trying to con him, trying to save herself. How dumb did she think he was? He took out his phone, snapped a couple photographs, and took the X-Acto knife out of his pocket.
THREE

“Hear that?”

Virginia walked past him with a screwdriver in her hand.

It was the dryer making a strange thumping noise.

O’Clair said, “What is it?”

“Needs a new belt.”

“How do you know that?”

“Are you serious?”

Why was he surprised? She’d fixed the disposal in unit ten and installed a new faucet in fourteen. O’Clair followed her into the utility room, watched her pull the dryer out from the wall and turn it sideways.

“Need some help?” He pictured her as a sexy repair girl wearing a tool belt and high heels.

“No thanks,” she said, like he was getting in the way. Virginia took off the service panel, squatted and wedged a six-inch piece of two-by-four under the drum and cut the cracked belt off with scissors. Held the belt up and said, “See?”

No, he didn’t see and he didn’t say anything. When he’d met Virginia four months earlier she’d had purple hair, a stud in her tongue, and another one under her lower lip. She wore crazy outfits, black fingerless gloves, and a spiked dog collar—emo all the way. Once they got to Florida she changed her tune, stopped coloring her hair and wearing the goofy fucking clothes, and what do you know? She was a knockout.

O’Clair wondered what she’d seen in him from the beginning. He was forty-five and she was twenty-six and attractive. He’d never admit it but he was insecure about Virginia, worried she was going to wake up one morning, look at him and say, “What am I doing with a beast like you?”

But she stayed. Like he was her special project, trying to make him a little hipper and more interesting. She introduced him to new music, groups he’d never hear of: the National, Wilco, Arcade Fire, and Band of Horses. Introduced him to hip, new clothes, buying Tommy Bahama shirts, Revo shades, and platinum Fubu shorts. O’Clair had tried the new clothes on, looked at himself in the mirror and thought he looked like a clown, but wore the stuff for her, feeling self-conscious the first couple times he’d gone out in public, but he was used to it by now. He watched her install the new dryer belt and said, “Seriously, where’d you learn all this?”

“My dad.”

O’Clair couldn’t believe it. He’d grown up in a house with a tool drawer that had a screwdriver, pliers, a hammer, and a bunch of mismatched screws and nails. O’Clair’s father was a liquor salesman who sold Teacher’s scotch to the wholesaler, the state of Michigan. His father couldn’t do anything handy and O’Clair wasn’t much better. When he’d moved into his house in Ferndale he used the existing wall hooks to hang the few framed prints he’d acquired, none centered on the wall or the same height. Friends would come over and ask why O’Clair decided to put the pictures where he did. One girl he’d dated asked if it was influenced by feng shui. O’Clair said, “No, it was influenced by not giving a shit.”

*

He was cleaning the pool the next morning when Holland called.

“Girl’s name is Gloria McMillen. Cause of death was determined to be asphyxiation. Manner of death was ruled to be homicide. The killer had skill. Her eyes were surgically removed with some kind of scalpel.”

“Find out if it was an X-Acto knife,” O’Clair said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Was she sexually assaulted?”

“With a metal rod,” Holland said. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like women. Maybe he wasn’t breast fed or his mother wasn’t nice to him.”

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“You have to be strong to carry a one-hundred-twenty-pound girl from the street to the beach. It’s got to be seventy yards.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

“I had a case like it a few years ago, although the cause of death was way different.”

“You think the murders are related?”

“I’m not saying that.” O’Clair paused, but he was thinking it. “Guy named Alvin Monroe killed two prostitutes, shot them once in the head, cut their eyeballs out with an X-Acto blade, and raped them with a metal rod. Alvin was convicted of first degree murder and given consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.”

“A copycat,” Holland said.

Holland was watching too many cop shows. “Details of the murders were never disclosed in the newspapers.”

“Maybe somebody came to trial, heard the evidence in the courtroom.”

“Anything’s possible,” O’Clair said. “Why wait six years to come after me? Let me think about it, talk to my former partner.” O’Clair paused. “Tell me more about the girl.”

“Gloria’s mother called two days ago, said her daughter was missing, e-mailed a photo, came and identified the body. Gloria McMillen was twenty. She was attending classes at Broward College and worked as a cashier at Publix.”

“Gloria have a boyfriend?”

“Her high school sweetheart, a kid named Joey Van Antwerp,” Holland said. “But they broke up six months ago.”

“Why?”

“The mother doesn’t know.”

“I hope he’s on your list. Any evidence? Any other suspects?”

“Nothing yet. Not much to go on. Unless we get lucky.”

“You’ve got to work the case,” O’Clair said. “Make your own luck. How long you been doing this?”

“Eighteen months.”

“How many homicides you worked primary?”

“Six, not counting this one.” Holland sounded like he was apologizing. “How about you?”

“Fifteen hundred or so.”

“I’m going to Gloria’s place, look around. Want to come?” O’Clair did feel a sense of responsibility. Maybe Holland was right—someone was trying to tell him something. Holland picked him up twenty minutes later. O’Clair got in the car and said, “What’s the crime like down here?”

Holland glanced at him. “You talking homicide?”

“Yeah. How many murders did you have in Pompano last year?”

“Eight, and that’s high for a town with a population of just over a hundred thousand. Way above the national average.” Holland took a right on NE Fifth Street.

“What kind of situations?”

“Everything you can think of. Two were domestic, husbands killed their wives. Both arrested and prosecuted.” Holland paused. “One, a teen from Iowa arrived in town by bus, gave birth, and threw the kid down a trash chute. The girl confessed and posted a photo of herself on Facebook with a caption that said: People you will see in hell.”

O’Clair had investigated his share of dead babies: beaten to death by the mother’s boyfriend or the mother herself ’cause the baby was crying too much. It was something you never got used to.

“Had another one,” Holland said, “guy named Ricardo Arzate, killed his friend at a birthday party, shot him twice and disappeared. You see a Puerto Rican with a tat of the Virgin Mary on his right pec, give me a call.”

“Good luck,” O’Clair said. “You know how many Puerto Ricans have the Blessed Virgin tattooed on their chests?”

Holland pulled into the parking lot of the Harbor Cove condominiums less than a mile from his motel. They got out and took the elevator up to the third floor, then walked down the hall to 3C. Holland had a key, unlocked the door and they went in. It was a two-bedroom condo on the Intracoastal, beautifully furnished. “How’s someone who works at a grocery store afford a place like this? Did her parents buy it for her?”

“The mother said Gloria saved up.”

“I’d find out who’s financing it and how much she put down.”

They went in the bedroom that had a queen-size bed. O’Clair checked the big, organized dressing room, shoes on one side, lined up on floor-to-ceiling shelves, thirty-six pairs. Her clothes were on the other side. He wasn’t an expert, but everything looked expensive. O’Clair went in the adjoining bathroom. The counter was cluttered with make- up containers, smudges of color on the white Formica countertop, towels on the tile floor, shampoo, conditioner, bath oils, and candles lining the flat side of the tub.

The second bedroom was used as an office. O’Clair sat behind the sleek desk in a high-backed swivel office chair, going through the drawers, taking out things of interest: Gloria McMillen’s checkbook, pay stubs, phone bills, bank statements, lining them up on the desktop next to her MacBook.

Holland came in the room and stood next to him. “What do you have?”

“What do you want to know? She put forty grand down on the condo, had a fifteen-year mortgage, paying twenty- two hundred a month. She drove a Mercedes E-Class. Her lease with Mercedes-Benz Credit was seven hundred thirty-eight a month, and she had seventy-five grand in a savings account.”

“How would she have that kind of money making ten dollars an hour as a cashier at Publix?”

“She didn’t. Looks like she quit that job six months ago, but didn’t tell her mother. Gloria’s been getting a weekly check from XYZ Company. Different amounts, but adds up to almost one hundred and thirty thousand since July.”

Holland said, “Is there an address?”

“A post office box in Coral Gables.”

Holland rubbed his jaw. “What’s XYZ do, they’re paying a twenty-year-old girl two hundred and sixty grand a year?”

“It’s a shell company for an escort service.” O’Clair handed him a stack of eight and a half by eleven pages Gloria must’ve printed from the escort web site.

Holland started reading.

“Everything you want to know about Glamor Girls,” O’Clair said. “It’s all there: rates, reservations, customer rewards, FAQs. Spend fifty thousand a year and you’re a platinum member.”

“What’s that get you?”

“Complimentary limo service, discounts at hotels.”

“How much do they charge?”

“Depends where you’re at,” O’Clair said. “You’ve got the rate sheet.”

Holland shuffled through a couple pages, found what he was looking for. “In Boca it’s eight hundred to a thousand an hour, two hour minimum.”

“How about Pompano?”

“Doesn’t say, but Lauderdale is only seven hundred to nine hundred,” Holland said. “What a deal, huh? They take Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and Discover. Listen to this: ‘Someone once said, “The best things in life are free.” Our classy ladies would love to hang out with you for nothing, but the reality is, hair, nails, makeup, and designer outfits are expensive.’”

O’Clair booted up the MacBook, brought up Safari, typed in the web site, and the Glamor Girls home page appeared. Rows of color shots of hot-looking girls wearing high heels, posing in bikinis and lingerie. Girls with names like Francesca and Desiree, Isabella and Darcey, Alix, Chandler, and Bayley. O’Clair had never met girls with any of those names. He scrolled down and saw Gloria McMillen in a casual pose, sultry expression. She was leaning against an ornate bannister, one leg straight, the other bent, heel hooked on the metalwork. The name under the photograph was Ashley. “So they don’t know she’s dead.”

“They suspect something’s wrong. Come in and listen to her messages,” Holland said, walking out of the room.

O’Clair followed him into the kitchen. There was a Panasonic answering machine on the brown granite counter over a built-in wine cooler.

“She was killed around four a.m.,” Holland said. “These came in later that morning. I think you’re right, the escort people don’t know she’s dead or they’d get rid of her picture, wouldn’t they?” Holland pressed the message button.

“Glor, it’s Pam, tried your cell, no answer. A gentleman named Rick is asking for you this evening, call for the particulars. Oh, and how was your date?”

“Pause it,” O’Clair said. “What time did that call come in?”

“Yesterday. Ten thirty in the morning.”

“Sounds like she was with someone the night she was killed. Which may or may not be the perp. But it’s a place to start.”

Holland pressed the button again. “It’s your mother, where are you? Are we still having lunch? I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Glor, it’s Pam. Remember Barry from last week? He wants to know if you’re available tomorrow evening at seven. You’re becoming very popular. What’re you doing to these poor guys?”

“It’s your mother. Where were you? We were supposed to meet for lunch.”

“Call me by four or I’ll have to cancel your date. This isn’t like you.”

“Pam, the girl on the answering machine,” O’Clair said, “you’ve got her number, right? You should be able to get an address.”

.. Continued…

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