Jake Powers, after working as an investigator for eight years at the California Department of Justice, thought the world of private investigation would be exciting. But he soon falls into a life of mundane tasks, like chasing cheating spouses and serving subpoenas. Until today...
A young girl, Chastity Blaise, shows up at Jake Powers and Associates distraught that one of her five roommates has gone unexpectedly missing. Jake's challenge, should he accept, is to find her alive. When the missing girl turns up dead, dumped in a rural area of the county like a sack of trash, Jake's mission changes. He must now learn who killed her and why? Are Chastity and her other roommates in danger? Can Jake literally, Keep Chastity Alive?
Jake Powers, after working as an investigator for eight years at the California Department of Justice, thought the world of private investigation would be exciting. But he soon falls into a life of mundane tasks, like chasing cheating spouses and serving subpoenas. Until today...
A young girl, Chastity Blaise, shows up at Jake Powers and Associates distraught that one of her five roommates has gone unexpectedly missing. Jake's challenge, should he accept, is to find her alive. When the missing girl turns up dead, dumped in a rural area of the county like a sack of trash, Jake's mission changes. He must now learn who killed her and why? Are Chastity and her other roommates in danger? Can Jake literally, Keep Chastity Alive?
1
The ring of my cell phone shattered an alcohol induced sleep. My back and neck stiffened. My heartbeat throbbed in both temples. I lifted my head, turned to check the clock. Quarter to six on Monday morning. My head in a vice. It had been a long night. I grabbed at the phone; missed it. I grabbed again.
“Who the hell’s this?” My head pounded.
“Jake, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. When I got to the office, a young woman was waiting. Should I ask her to come back later? She said she just got off work.”
Pablo, my executive assistant, always opened the office early. Me, not ‘til nine. I took a deep breath, sat up in bed, eyes opened but still half asleep. “What’s she want?” I mumbled.
“To see you. Says it’s important and she can pay. And boss,” Pablo’s voice dropped to a whisper, “you got to see this one.”
“Let her in and make her comfortable. Coffee. Whatever. I might be an hour.”
“Will do,” Pablo said. “See you then.” “And Pablo.”
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“Yes.”
“Sorry I answered like an asshole.” The phone clicked off dead on the other end.
Damn booze.
Rolling out of bed, I gingerly walked to the bathroom. After four aspirin, a gallon of water and fifteen minutes, I could minimally function. I stared in the mirror. I looked like shit. My eyes were red. Bags underneath both eyes. I carefully shaved around my beard and got in the shower. I ducked my head under the spout and warm water streamed over me. After twenty minutes, I felt a little better.
My large, black and white male cat, Ernie, was hungry and let me know it. I fed him and let him out for the day. A stale croissant sat alone in the refrigerator. Couldn’t remember the last time I bought groceries. I did have coffee. At least I had that going for me. I left my condo at 7 am and joined the rat race heading toward downtown. Turned off Sierra to go south on Howe. I came to the intersection of Howe and Fair Oaks Boulevard, said to be the busiest in the city. At this time in the morning, it wasn’t as bad as it would get in an hour. I powered through.
A car in front of me unexpectedly jammed on its brakes. I swerved into the left lane. Brakes screeched behind me as another vehicle tried to avoid a collision. Didn’t feel contact, so all of us had avoided an accident. But in my rearview mirror, a shiny chrome Ram’s head and the jet-black grill of a black pick-up truck was on my bumper. I had pissed someone off, royally. The driver of the pick-up was honking his horn mercilessly and giving me the single finger salute all the way down Howe. When he tapped my bumper, I’d had enough.
The first place I could safely pull over was College Town Drive. I took a rolling right, through a red light, and the black pick-up followed. Took another right at La Riviera and pulled to the back of a Chevron station. Got out of my car, expecting anything. The driver of the pick-up slammed on his brakes and his tires screeched as the pick-up stopped. The front driver’s door flew open. A large white man about fifty jumped out, his face red
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as the color of a ripe cherry. Veins bulged out of his neck. I said politely, “Do we have a problem?” But talking wasn’t going to do. He approached me, yelling every swear word in the sailor’s playbook. In his right hand he held the biggest piece of industrial copper cable I’d ever seen. It was wrapped in black electrician’s tape on the outside. He intended to use it on me.
I braced for a collision, spreading my legs about the width of my body, slightly offset, and bent. The enraged fellow barreled toward me. He gave me the bull’s rush with his right hand above his head ready to strike. When he reached me, I lowered my left shoulder and rammed it into his sternum, taking the full weight of his charge. We both flew backwards, and his head hit the asphalt. It sounded like a melon being dropped from ten feet. I pushed him off and got up. He lay as still as a dead body. People who had been pumping gas rushed over. He was out cold, or worse. Blood was flowing out of a gash covered by his salt and pepper hair.
Somebody yelled, “Call 911!” Three people got out their cell phones, and two young witnesses pointed their phones at me and the man on the ground. I’d be on social media within the hour. A woman produced a towel from her car and cushioned the man’s head. The bleeding wound stained it red.
In five minutes (that seemed like an hour), a black and white from the Sacramento State University police arrived. The university police were the closest in the vicinity to the Chevron station and surroundings. A young policewoman got out of the car and quickly assessed the situation. She retrieved a large first aid kit from her trunk. I just watched. In another ten minutes a red fire station EMT van arrived. They quickly took over. No one asked me if I was okay.
The young policewoman asked the onlookers what happened. After taking names and notes for nearly twenty minutes, a dozen fingers and a dozen pairs of eyes pointed in my direction. She approached me and identified herself as Officer Barnes. She asked me what had happened. I told her, and she took a report. She walked back to the trunk of her cruiser and came back with an
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evidence envelope and a pair of latex gloves. After putting them on, she gently picked up the industrial cable and put it in the envelope. The paramedics loaded the man in the back of their truck. The screaming sound of the EMT wagon’s siren blared in my ear as it raced to La Riviera and then down College Town Drive toward the freeway. I assumed it was taking the man to the UCD Sac Medical Center, which has trauma capabilities.
“I called a fire engine,” Officer Barnes said. “They’ll wash the blood off the asphalt. I have another call, but a Sac PD car is in route, and they’ll want a statement too, so don’t leave until they get here.”
“I can’t wait longer than fifteen minutes. I have a client waiting.”
“I’m just telling you, don’t leave until they get here.” With that she got into her black and white and was off.
I waited fifteen minutes, and decided I’d had enough. Why should the victim of a crime be put out? I placed my business card under a wiper blade on the truck and got in my car and drove the rest of the way to the office. I hadn’t started the fight, but I had ended it. My prospective client waited.
As I drove on the freeway, beads of sweat dripped down my forehead and the small of my back. I got out a handkerchief and wiped my forehead. My right hand trembled. Was this reaction from fear or excitement? I really didn’t know.
My girlfriend, Aisha, who’s a doctor, thinks I have post- traumatic stress disorder caused by my two tours of combat duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. I had been shot at many times, which was always nerve wracking, and wounded seriously once. I currently met with a group of former service members and police and fire personnel, once a week at Aisha’s insistence. The group was led by a social worker, and we all talked about what had happened to all of us in Iraq and Afghanistan, and our current stressors. Opening up this time in my life made me realize I had more work to do.
The sign on my office suite in the Wong Center reads Jake Powers and Associates. We’re a private investigation firm, and
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I’m a sole proprietor. The “associates” just sounds good. My office is in downtown Sacramento, in an area that passes for Sacramento’s Chinatown. Urban renewal long ago destroyed the real Chinatown. Most of the Chinese in Sacramento now live in more prosperous neighborhoods of the city. Elderly, mostly Chinese, do live above my office in the upper floors, some of which are assisted living.
I’ve been in business for eight years now. The state Attorney General’s Office was my springboard to life as a PI. Tired of working for someone else, I struck out on my own. I enticed Pablo away from a different job. He’d done computer assisted legal research at Pacific/McGeorge, a local law school. I pay him more than I pay myself, but he’s needed, and we’re best friends. He is a whiz on the computer. We subscribe to PI data bases and programs, and his skills justify the expenses.
When I opened the door, the first thing that greeted me, like a blast of hot air, was the pungent aroma of cheap perfume. Pablo, who was at the computer, nodded toward the waiting area couch where a young woman sat patiently. I walked over to her, introduced myself and told her I’d be with her in a minute. I went into my office and closed the door. I took off my coat, which was a bit damp, and hung it up on a hanger. I sat at my chair and swiveled it to face the credenza. I took out a glass and a green bottle of Tanqueray gin. I poured three fingers and drank it quickly. That always helped a hangover headache.
Aisha thinks I have a problem with alcohol too. Guess she figures she’ll deal with one problem at a time. I took a deep breath, got up, and went to the door. I asked the young woman to come in. I motioned to one of the chairs across from my desk where clients generally sit. Pablo had been right; I had to see this for myself.
The woman with the strong scent was medium height, wearing a platinum blond wig with loose curls hanging over both sides of her face. She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was wearing high heeled black leather boots that rose just above her knees and her legs were otherwise uncovered.
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They were a pale, milky, alabaster white. Her eyes were a glistening blue, and her nose was short and small, and slightly upturned, with a heart stud on the left side. Her outfit included the shortest of red shorts and a white halter top with no bra. Her breasts were partially covered by a short coat made of artificial fur. She had on bright red lipstick, and thick eye makeup that looked like it could use some touching up. Her lashes were long and thickened by mascara. Light-red eye shadow with small specs of gold glitter covered her eyelids. I fought the impulse to stare at her breasts.
“Are you comfortable? I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Is that gin I smell?
I didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever said anything
to me about drinking before.
“I don’t drink, but I’m around booze all the time. I smell gin.” “I was drinking gin last night. That must be what you smell.” “No, this smells fresh. It’s on your breath. I can even smell it
from across the desk.”
“I did have a little drink when I came in this morning. My
head ached and it’s an excellent cure.”
Her eyes pierced mine. “I’ve heard that before from people
who have a drinking problem.”
I had to face it. I’d been caught. I wasn’t going to get anything
over this little lady. I stared at her, sheepishly. I guess she thought I’d been chastised enough, and she went on.
“I came right after work. I usually work nights.”
“I see,” I replied. “I don’t think you told me your name.” “It’s Chastity, Chastity Blaise.”
“Really?” Raised my eyebrows. Sounded to me like a nom de
guerre.
“Really,” she said, sensing my disbelief. “I don’t know what
my mother was thinking.”
“Well Chastity, why do you need my services?”
Her demeanor changed. Her bone white face went blank. She
was dead serious.
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“I’m going to be honest with you Mr. Powers. If you haven’t used your PI skills to figure it out, I’m a call girl and an escort. Men pay me money. Often a lot.”
I glanced at her exposed cleavage and the one hard nipple I could plainly see through her thin top. It looked good. She was a gorgeous young woman. She caught me and stared in my eyes. While continuing to stare directly at me, she slowly moved her coat, so the view was total. My heart rate increased. I turned away and then looked back. She’d covered herself. She knew how to use her precocious sexuality. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking.
“How long have you been, uh, doing that?”
“Since I was fourteen. I ran away from home, and a man turned me out.”
“Turned you out?” I asked. My voice cracked a bit. She was still staring at me. After what seemed like an eternity, she answered.
“When I ran away, I didn’t have anywhere to go. I met a man who said he would take care of me. The only thing I had to do was take care of him. That’s the short version of it. I guess you can say I was trafficked. That’s what they call it.”
She paused a moment, then continued.
“They took me all up and down I-5 from San Diego to Seattle, and along I-80 from the Bay Area to Reno. There was always a cheap motel along the freeways, and men who paid for it. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. The man turned out to be a pimp, and he sold me to another man, then I was sold again.”
Big tears welled up in both her eyes. She tried not to cry, but tears were soon running down her cheeks. I grabbed a piece of tissue from my desk and handed it to her. She dried her eyes and continued.
“When I was twenty, I escaped. Now I work on my own. Some girls and I created an escort service. We sell our time and our services. We’re good at it. Men are always needy. We get money; they get off. Sometimes they just need someone to talk with. And they usually smell like your breath.”
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“Sorry about the drinking,” I said. I tugged at my collar that suddenly felt too tight.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I still want you to help me.”
I cleared my voice and said, “You said girls. Who else?” “There are six of us. Sometimes more when we take in a stray.
We live together on a farm in Wilton. All of us have ditched pimps and we work on our own. We’re a high-class operation. This get up I’m wearing fits one of my regulars’ fantasies. He’s an older man. But we don’t need to get into that now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you to find Tiffany.”
“What if that’s relevant?”
“Then we can go into it more later.”
Touché.
“We also try to help other girls ditch their pimps. Eventually
live a straight life. We’re all trying to save up enough money so we can go legitimate. Sometimes we’ll walk the stroll areas just to see if there are other girls who want to leave too. We try to help them.”
“Can I ask you something Chastity?” “Sure.”
“How old are you really?”
“I’m 22.”
“No, really,” I said, more emphatically this time.
“Okay, I’m 18. Happy now?”
I could tell from looking at her that her hard life had taken
years from her. She looked much older than eighteen. I wondered how my drinking had aged me. I got out a yellow legal pad and a pen from my desk so I could take notes.
“If we’re going to have a business relationship, you have to be honest with me. No bull shitting. I was honest with you about the booze.”
“Yes, but you were caught. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
I ignored that comment. “Have you ever thought of going back home to get out of...the life?”
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“Never!” Her right hand gripped the desk, and her skin turned even whiter. She stared me in the eyes betraying her young age. “You don’t know how it was. My real father died when I was five. My mother remarried and my stepfather started molesting me when I was twelve. My mother knew about it but never did anything. That’s great, eh? What a childhood.
“When I had to have an abortion, both my mother and stepfather told the doctor I’d been involved with a careless boyfriend. I vowed to leave after that, and I did. I’ll never go back. I don’t care if I ever see them again!”
Tears streamed down her face, and she wiped them with the tissue I’d given her. Her make-up was smeared over her cheeks. This poor girl had lived a life no child should. But she carried herself like an adult.
“What brought you here so early? Who’s Tiffany?”
“She’s one of the girls I live with. We were out one night with two different men in the same hotel. After my client left, I waited all night for Tiffany to come to my room. I was driving, so she couldn’t go home without me. But she never came. I have no idea what happened to her. She wouldn’t have just walked away. I called her cell phone, and it rang until it went to message. I left a message, but never got a call back. I tried and tried. Finally, in the morning, I drove home, and she wasn’t there either. I had a bad feeling. She wouldn’t just up and leave without saying something. Especially on a night we were together. Something bad happened.” She was hyperventilating, and her voice trailed off at the end.
“When did this happen?” “Three nights ago.”
“So, Friday night?”
“Yes, Friday night.”
“Did Tiffany have a last name?” I asked. “It was Tiffany Dupree.”
“Was that her real name?”
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“No,” Chastity replied. “She told me once it was Margaret Oakes, and she grew up in Iowa or somewhere on a farm. She loved animals. We just called her Tiffany or Tiff.”
I was writing all this down. “Is it O-A-K-S?”
“No, there’s an E after the K, I believe.”
“And she hasn’t come back or gotten in touch with you?” “No,” she snapped. “If she’d come back or I’d heard anything,
I wouldn’t be here.” Touché again.
“What motel were you and Tiffany at?”
“It’s called the Mother Lode Inn. It’s off Highway 50 near Bradshaw. It’s not a quality hotel like uptown, but they don’t ask questions and there are no cameras to expose the clients. That’s important to the men we associate with. They also don’t ask any questions and they know how to keep their mouths shut. That’s important too.” I wrote the name of the hotel on my yellow pad. I knew the place. Not upscale. But not a dump, either. At least that’s the way I remembered it. I hadn’t been there in years.
“What time did you check in?”
“We don’t check-in. We just go to the rooms where our clients are.”
“What room did you go to?”
“I think it was three hundred something.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not exactly. Maybe 360?” She glanced at me, as though I’d
know what room.
“What room did Tiffany go to?”
“I don’t remember.” Her shoulders dropped slightly.
“Think really hard.”
“I am. I don’t think I ever knew. It didn’t matter, so long as
she knew where I was.”
“What was she wearing?”
“She had on a short, blue floral dress with a plunging neckline.
I do remember that.”
“Was she carrying a purse, or anything else?”
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KEEPING CHASTITY ALIVE
“I think she had a small brown bag that she hung over one shoulder.”
“What kind of shoes did she have on?”
“Oh, Mr. Powers. I can’t remember all that. It was just an ordinary night. Do I have to remember everything?”
“No, but the more you do, the more it might help.” “I’ve told you everything I remember.”
“What was the name of the man she was to meet?” “I don’t know that either.”
“Was he a regular client?”
“No. It was the first time she was going to be with him. He had called her cell. He probably got the number off the website. She told him the hotel where they’d hook up. It could have been anyone. She didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.” She began to whimper, but I kept on.
“Is there any way you can find his name?”
“I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, I think she said he just called.”
“But the number might be on her cell?”
“Yes, I suppose. But so might five hundred others. She didn’t say who it was.” She gave a quick, slow shake of the head as she said that. She looked down at the floor.
“Who were you with?”
“One of my regulars.”
“What was his name?”
“Does it matter? He didn’t have anything to do with it. And
I’m not missing.” She shook her head again. “It might.”
She waited for a long minute looking behind me out the window, and then said, “It was David Macumber.”
The name sounded familiar.
“The state senator from Los Angeles?”
“Yes, but keep him out of this, please. I’m sure he wasn’t
involved with Tiffany’s disappearance. He’s a good client and a good man. He tips well.”
“I will if I can. Isn’t he married?” 19
JOHN ROSSKOPF
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything? My stepfather was married.”
Touché again.
“Nothing, I guess. And Tiffany’s never just run off before?” “Not during the two years I’ve been living with her. I called
the main jail, thinking maybe she’d been entrapped and arrested. But they didn’t have anyone there under either name, and we never got a call from a bail bondsman.”
“Did you call the local emergency rooms?”
“Yes, all of them. No Tiffany.”
“Now don’t get mad when I ask this, but did you report this
to the sheriff’s department or the police?”
“We tried,” she said emphatically. “But since she was over 21
and had just gone missing, they said there was nothing they could do. We weren’t family and couldn’t tell them our real relationship or the circumstances.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her?”
“That’s a crazy thing to ask, Mr. Powers.” Her cheeks turned pink and her eyebrows narrowed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll try not to say crazy things again. And please call me Jake.”
“Okay, Jake then. In my profession, there’s always an element of danger. But I don’t know of anyone who didn’t like Tiffany, specifically. And that includes the girls and the clients we deal with.”
“Did she ever talk about just running away one day? Something like that?”
“No, never.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No. Tiffany and Jade, one of the other girls, were together.”
She tensed up and locked her eyes on mine. “Jade is torn up inside something terrible. She doesn’t have any idea where Tiff could be either. And you know what’s weird?”
“What’s that?”
“Tiffany had a pit bull and two cats. She loved those animals. I know she wouldn’t leave without them.”
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KEEPING CHASTITY ALIVE
“And you want me to find her?”
“Of course I want you to fucking find her!” she said, indignantly, surprised that I’d asked. Her pasty white face turned a deep red.
“I’ll need more information from you. I’ll need client names at the least.”
“I’ll give you everything I have,” she said. “But I’d rather not divulge all the names.”
“Why not?”
“Because some men are in high places. They tell us things. I don’t think they’d want their names getting out. Same with Tiffany’s clients.”
“If you want me to help you, you’ll have to be forthcoming. You’ve hit on the reason I need the names. Some men might be afraid of what they’ve told you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they might be afraid, for instance, that Tiffany might tell someone else.”
“So you think one of our regulars might have done something to Tiffany? I don’t want to think that. I want to think you’ll find her safe.”
“We can’t rule it out.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m just being honest. Do you have a picture of Tiffany?” Chastity reached in her little brown purse and took out her
cell phone. She scrolled through her pictures, found what she was looking for, and handed the cell to me.
“This is a picture of Tiffany and me,” she said. “If you scroll to the next one, it’s all us six girls.”
Tiffany was taller and thinner than Chastity. In this picture, she had long brown hair, but clothes a bit more modest than Chastity was currently wearing. It didn’t look like the picture had been taken on a work night.
“Is this what she looked like on the night she went missing?” I asked.
“Not exactly, but close enough.” 21
JOHN ROSSKOPF
“Can you airdrop these to me?”
“Of course.” She did. I checked my pictures, and they were there.
“Look. We thought if we hired you, you’d have ways to find her. Other people we asked told us you have your ways.” She looked straight at me and her eyebrows narrowed again.
“There are a few things I can try. But there are obstacles. I don’t mean to offend you, but people in your profession are a transient group. I’ve looked up and down I-5 before. I found a runaway who was walking the streets in Stockton once. The other times, I haven’t been that successful.”
“Tiffany wasn’t the kind who walks the streets.”
“What was she?”
“A high-class call girl and escort. There’s a difference between
us and the girls who walk the boulevard for pennies. So will you try to find her?” She looked at me in anticipation.
“Of course.”
“I knew you could do it!” she said. She leaned back in her chair, let out a breath, and smiled broadly. “And we can pay you,” She got an envelope out of her little bag and passed it to me.
“The girls and I took up a collection.”
I took the envelope from her and looked inside. I thumbed a stack of bills. There were mostly hundreds, but a few fifties and twenties.
“Is that enough?” she asked. Her pale, crossed legs were bouncing.
“Yes, I think it’s enough. We need to discuss a few things first, then you have to sign some papers to make this official.”
“What things and what papers?”
I explained about contracts and learning as much as I could before I could develop a plan of action. We talked for a couple of hours about her business. We talked about internet dating, call girls, escorts, some of the best hotels in Sacramento, and some that were out of the way but convenient, discrete, and clean. I was especially interested in the website she called their escort service. They advertised themselves as escorts but sexual favors were
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KEEPING CHASTITY ALIVE
available. They might just as soon go to dinner or share a weekend with a client, as much as making their bodies available. I thought Pablo might have a field day there, and it could produce some leads. Maybe lead us to the answer, but that would be too easy. And it was never that easy.
“Might Tiffany have left with her client for the weekend on a whim or something?”
“No way. She’d never leave and not tell me when we were working together.”
Sure, there were hookers who would simply sell their bodies for the regular man. But that didn’t seem to be the business model for Chastity and the others. They catered to a higher class of clientele and were confidants and friends as much as bed partners.
“I don’t suppose you have a business card?” I asked. I knew it was a stupid question, but it was an opening to the web address.
“No, but you can find us at Prettylittlewomen.com. That’s our website. We get a lot of our business from there, but not all.”
“Do you have a list of everyone who’s visited the site?”
“We don’t know everyone who visits, but some leave their email address. I suspect many people visit the site just to get off looking at the pictures we have posted.”
“Are there pictures of all of you there?”
“Of course. How else would a prospective client know which one of us he wanted?”
“Do the pimps give you a problem?” I asked. “You did say you walk the streets sometimes and help the other girls. I doubt if they care for your efforts.”
“They don’t. I didn’t say we walk the streets. Don’t get me wrong. That’s not us. Sometimes the pimps hassle us. We’ve been in fights before with their girls trying to get us to leave. But we can take care of ourselves.”
Until now.
I gave her my card, pointing to my cell number, and told her she could reach me anytime of the day or night. I told her to be careful, and I’d be in touch soon. She took out a piece of
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paper from a little pad in her purse and wrote her name and cell number on it. She too said I could reach her 24/7.
We had a missing girl to find. And new client.
We walked out of the office as we said our goodbyes. Once she’d left, I walked over to Pablo at his desk.
“What do you think?” Pablo asked.
“The girl could be anywhere. But they have plenty of money. And Pablo...”
“What?”
“See what you can find out about Ms. Blaise. You know, birth certificate, driver’s license, car registration, warrants, arrest record, social media presence...anything. She said she was originally from LA. If you need help with the DMV, call Deputy Emily Braun from East Division at the sheriff’s department. She was more than happy last year with the pictures we got of her husband and his girlfriend. My testimony in court helped her get maximum child support and generous alimony, even though she worked. She said she owed me one. Call in the favor. I think she’ll help.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Also, see what you can find on Tiffany Dupree. Ms. Blaise said her real name is Margaret Oakes, with an E between the K and the S. She said she was originally from the Midwest somewhere.”
“I’ll see what I can find. What’s next?”
“I’m going now to the last place Tiffany was seen alive.” “Where’s that?”
“The Mother Lode Inn.”
24
2
Private detective Jake Powers is drawn into a complex investigation when a high-end escort girl vanishes after visiting a hotel.
Her body is eventually found dumped in a country area of Sacramento. Murder is strongly suspected, although it is initially dismissed as a case of a fentanyl overdose.
Once Powers is drawn into making inquiries by the victim’s friend and fellow escort Chastity Blaise, he quickly uncovers a plot suggesting the lives of Chastity and her close-knit group of fellow sex workers may be in jeopardy.
Powers is presented as a cool, hard-drinking operator who has set up his own agency after gaining experience with the California Department of Justice. But there is a softer side to his character. He always rushes home to feed his cat and shows concern for the small group of morally flawed women. He is also open to advice from his medically trained girlfriend, Aisha.
As this riveting, fast-paced, easy-to-read thriller proceeds, Powers seems to find less and less time for swigging alcohol. His work is fraught with constant danger as he knocks on doors and asks awkward questions in a case that threatens to shake up the lives of some powerful figures.
I began to believe from around the middle of the book that I knew who was behind the murder plot. But my suspicions were proved wrong and I felt events ended with a satisfying resolution.
This novel, written in the first-person in a conversational style with moments of humour, included some classic US crime fiction elements. I was reminded at times of the exploits of fictional American detectives Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe. The book also gives an interesting insight into aspects of day-to-day life in California’s state capital.
Powers is tough and not the sort of guy I’d readily want to go drinking with. His bar visits generally seem to end with someone getting a thump on the head – at the very least.
But he is a promising fictional creation and I look forward to reading more of him.