Snuff (24 page)

SEVENTY-FIVE

“Okay, so, where do I start with this piece of work?”  Stacy asked, slapping at her keyboard.  “There’s so much to shuffle through.”

John leaned back in Lisette’s office chair, gazing out the window at the landscape of craggy skyscrapers.  The setting sun shattered off the mirrored glass o
f the buildings, blinding him. He turned away. “How about his birthdate?”

“Well, sure, if you want to go the obvious route.  He was born on Valentine’s day, 1983.  Kind of a douche, by all accounts.  He has a sealed juvenile record I can’t access unless I hack the database.  Expelled from his private prep school
senior year for fighting, no college transcripts.  IRS information says he’s worked as management at Garden of Eve for three years, and no work history prior.  Well, nothing the IRS has on file.  Three cars registered in his name—a Cadillac Escalade, a Range Rover, and a Hummer.  Phallic, huh?  Big cars to compensate?”

“I’d rather not speculate on
the size of his penis.”

He allowed her a long snicker.  “I can never get over when you say
penis
.  Anyway, three counts of sexual assault that were dismissed in pre-trial, and a date-rape charge that would have stuck, but the complainant got some amnesia and mysteriously forgot everything.  DA thinks he paid her off.  I’m betting she’s right, since the Ivashkovs seem to have a bank account bigger than Brangelina.”

“Who’s Brangelina?”

“What’s the matter with you?  Never mind, don’t answer that.  I’m emailing the records, but tying him to this blog might be tricky.  I hate to say it, but it looks like the only way I’ll get any leverage is if a new video uploads live, but that’s unlikely, since it looks like she’s uploaded all the other ones after the fact.  The email account gave me less than nothing.  Either no one uses the contact form, or she permanently deletes messages immediately after they’re sent.  I’ll keep tabs on it, though.”

New video
would be a double-edged sword, and not something John hoped would happen.  If the blog was updated, it meant another girl was about to die. 

SEVENTY-SIX

She slides off the bucket, crossing her skinny-jeaned legs as she settles onto the white granite floors. “Do you ever wonder if all we are is all we’re meant to be?” 

That sounds like metaphysical philosophy garbage, and I skipped those classes in community college, having opted for more practical courses like World History and Interior Design. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She leans back on her palms, blue eyes slitting as she stares right through me.  “
Well, you’re a waitress.  Have you ever been anything more than a waitress?”

“I’m not just a waitress.  I’m an actress, too.”

“They’re all waitresses.  Most of them stay waitresses, by the way.”

I poke the white floor.  “If I believed all we are is all we’re meant to be, I would have given up a long time ago.  We control our destiny.  It’s not like our lives have been decided—fate’s in our hands.”

Her eyelids, painted in shimmery champagne and copper shadows, flutter closed.  “You really think that?”

“I have to.  If I didn’t, there’d be nothing to live for.”

“Someone very dear to me asked that question once before.  I didn’t even know he was there.  Sort of sidled up behind me when I got off the stage and whispered in my ear.  I’m a stripper.”  She cracks one eye open, glossy lips parting into a smile.  “I know.  Pretty rich for me to call you a whore, when I take my clothes off for money.  I’m well aware of the irony.” 

“Why do you do it if you don’t like it?”

A pretty little dent of confusion etches between her arched eyebrows. “What else would I do?  That’s all I’m good for.”

“Who told you that
?  It’s not true.”

“Nobody had to tell me.  It’s just one of those things you realize.  Some girls want to be pediatricians or marine biologists.  Not me.”

“You’re married.  Whores don’t get married.”

Sh
e throws me another sharp look, so I wave at her left hand. “Your ring. You
are
married, right?”

“Engaged. 
Kind of.”  She admires the way light splinters off the diamond when she wiggles her fingers and smiles.  It looks more like a grimace.  “He likes you.”

It’s my turn to be confus
ed.  “Who?”

“
My fiancé.  He thinks you’re a firecracker.  Watching you rant and rave and cry on those cameras really turned him on.  He couldn’t take his hands off me when he finally made it back in time for curtain call.  I suppose variety isn’t what he likes, huh?  It’s little girls like you and Abby.”

Little girls who also look a lot like her.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

“Will the charming Miss Jennings be joining us, Mr. Special Agent Maxwell?”  Jacob asked when John stepped into the interview room. 

John pulled out the chair opposite
him and sat.  “It’s Sergeant.  Not ‘Miss’.”

Jacob cracked a smile.  “Either you have too much respect for the chain of command, or you’ve got a thing for her.
  I don’t blame you, if it’s the latter.”

“You know a lot about chains of command, don’t you?”  John opened a manila file stuffed with pages he’d printed from an email Stacy had sent.  “You’re pretty low on the Ivashkov chain of command.  Were you only included because your uncle’s in charge?”

Jacob’s eyes lost a little of their mocking luster. “It’s a family business.  I’m part of the family.  My uncle wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Then why’s your sister going to Yale Law?  He paid her tuition with a personal check.  He’d have done the same for you if you showed any smarts, but you’re the just the manager of drug
front.  You’ve never shown any ambition.  Your school records are mediocre at best.  You’re lazy—no jobs outside the ones your uncle created specifically for you, and you’ve never done any hard work in your life.”  He pointed to Jacob’s entwined fingers.  “You’ve got the smoothest hands I’ve ever felt.  When we shook, I remember thinking they were like a woman’s hands.”

“I wonder if I should be concerned my hands made such an impression.  Just for the record, I don’t swing that way.”

“Of course you don’t.  Because you’re involved with Bianca Cartwright.”

He snorted.  “Who told you that?  Her?  She’s twelve shades of crazy triple-dipped in psycho.”

“I don’t doubt that.  I’ve looked over her psych reports.”

“What does that have to do with me?”
 

John folded his arms over his chest. 
“Well, she mentioned you a lot.  Seems like you played with her heartstrings a little bit.  That wasn’t nice.”

“Oh, come on
.” Jacob rolled his eyes.  “She’s a crazy bitch, I knew it the minute I met her.  All you have to do is take one look at the scars.  She has them all over from where she’s cut herself. You’d be surprised how many guys think it’s sexy, when she’s in a corset and a garter belt.”

“Why would you bother getting i
nvolved with a crazy bitch?”

Jacob gave him a quizzical stare. “Well, everyone knows the crazier they
are the better fuck they are.”

John pushed back from the table.  “Yo
u pretended to be her boyfriend because you didn’t want to stop sleeping with her?”

He shr
ugged.  “I was never her boyfriend.  We just messed around.  I bought her things to make her happy at first, because I’ve got a lot of money, but we ended a long time ago.  I have no idea why she’d bring me up in therapy.  I didn’t even know she went.”

“
That’s a really romantic story.  You know what you don’t have a lot of?”

One
thick, professionally threaded eyebrow arched. 

“You don’t have a lot of intelligence.  I don’t have her
therapy records.  All I’ve got are two-year-old psychiatric hospital records.”  He shuffled the papers and stuffed them back into the folder.  “Regardless, we have a problem.  I’m sure Bianca’s told you about what happened to her when she was a teenager.”

“Is that a crime, listening to some sob story?”

“So she told you about it?”

“Not much.  But something must have happened, to fuck her up like that.  She was crazy in bed.”

“She wanted you to be rough with her.”

“If you call
asking me to make cuts all over her—and I mean all over her—with razor blades rough, then yes.”  Jacob crossed his arms over his purple satin shirt, a defiant smile tugging at his lips. “Bianca was a dream come true.  Only girl I’ve ever been with who likes being called a dirty whore.  Other chicks would slap me for doing that.”

“Judging from your arres
t record it’s a safe bet you’d slap them back.”

“Hey.”  He spread his hands wide, palms-up.
“No charges, no foul.”

People who wore a lot of purple were said t
o have delusions of aristocracy, since back in the day, common folks hadn’t had access to indigo dyes.  John could see with Jacob Ivashkov, that theory was dead-on. 

“So
, for the sake of clarity, you’re involved in a rough, sexual relationship with Bianca Cartwright?”

He heaved out a sigh. 
“I didn’t do anything she didn’t ask for.”

“I’m sure her wanting such odd things in bed brought up a few questio
ns.”

“She didn’t get any questions from me.
  I don’t judge.”

“Really?  You never put those pieces together
, or you just never cared enough to ask?  Not many normal women like being called a dirty whore.” 

He shrugged.  “Some women get off on
being submissive.  Masochists, whatever.”

“What you’ve described isn’t
submissive
, it’s damaged.  It’s not like she wanted to role-play being a schoolgirl who needs some disciplining by her headmaster.”

“Sounds kind of hot, though.  You think Lisette would be down?”

John bent to crack open his briefcase and pulled out a few files. “You have a white Escalade registered in your name.  Did you know my dead girls were transported to the dump sites in a vehicle matching that description?”

Jacob gave a
nother world-weary sigh and rested his cheek on a fist.  “There’s a lot of white SUVs in LA.  My uncle bought a whole fleet and gave them to the higher-up employees for business.”

“Is your father proud of you?”

Jacob’s face turned from an expression of boredom to confusion.  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Apart from being a loser, you
’ve never shown any ambition.  Your family’s been supporting you from day one.  Your sisters have accomplishments; several.  But not you.  I’d think your father would be ashamed.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Jacob scoffed.  “Is this you trying to get under my skin?  You’ll have to dig deeper.”

“Not too deep.  You’re shallow as a puddle.”  He fished a photograph from the folder in front of him and slid it across the table.  “Do you know someone named Caroline McKay?”

Jacob’
s jawline tensed, and he pushed the photo back.  “Those records are supposed to be sealed.”

John traced Caroline’s blonde hair with the edge of his pinkie. 
“Bianca and Caroline McKay could be sisters.  Caroline went to your highschool.  President of your class, but you know that.  She was a minor when she was dumped in front of a hospital, raped, beaten, and half dead.  Her name was never released, but she was assigned a patient number.  The only reason I know her name is because of the corresponding death certificate.  Caroline was the only teenaged girl who died that day, in that hospital, so the dots weren’t hard to connect.  She spoke a little, after she woke up from the coma for a few minutes.  Gave some names.”

“Then you’ll know I wasn’t one of them
.”

“I know you weren’t
convicted for being one of the attackers.  Just shy of your eighteenth birthday.  Your friend wasn’t so lucky, was he?  He’d already turned nineteen.  Nothing an attorney could do for him, but your uncle still tried.  A whole team of lawyers couldn’t keep him out of prison, but they worked wonders for you.  It
is
amazing, the fact you got off without even a slap on the wrist.  I suppose if God makes miracles, it stands to reason Satan would have a few of his own.”

“You’ll be in a lot of trouble for unseal
ing those records,” Jacob said with a stiff smile.  “You’ll also be hearing from my attorney.”

“Of course I will.  But I never
got access to those records, I just added two and two.  A tech analyst saw you had a sealed juvenile record and did some digging for crimes of a sexual nature that occurred in LA around the time you were a minor.  Austin McIntyre, your friend in highschool, graduated one year ahead of you.  You two were on the wrestling team.  Your names were in the paper a few times.  I didn’t need your records to figure out you were buddies.”

Jacob leaned over the table, clasped hands pressed into his chest.  “I’m
still trying to figure out just what the fuck a case over fifteen years old has to do with Bianca. She’s who you wanted to speak to me about.”

“I’m thinking you never really lost that taste for blood you got with Caroline.  And getting caught up with Bianca only reminded you of how much you missed it.”

“Your hypothesises are getting old.”

“It’s
hypotheses
.”  John pushed back from the table’s edge, crossing his arms over his lapels as he examined the ceiling.  “I’m thinking you, with that giant brain of yours, thought of a wonderful plan to cash in on the horrible thing that happened to Bianca.  Girls like her, who’ve gone through traumatic things, come out of it craving control, because they lost every shred of it.  The only thing that makes them feel better is when they get that power back.  You showed her how to do that, didn’t you?  The same thing you did to Caroline.  Only this time you could get paid for it, provided you covered your ass accordingly.”

“I’m assuming you’re implying I’ve got s
omething to do with this freaky blog you claim she’s running.  I don’t.”

John nodded. 
“I figured you’d say that.  You should know that I’ve got access to some of the best hackers in the world.  The Bureau recruits them.  You know, the whole, ‘if you can’t beat them, hire them’ thing.  I’ll find out one way or another.”

Jacob cleared his throat and tapped the face of his gold Cartier watch.  “I came to try to help.  I was told this was just a couple questions, and that I’m not under arrest.  If that hasn’t changed, I’ll be leaving.  I’ve got plenty of work to do.”

“Why
did
you come without being dragged in?  Anyone else and I might buy the ‘I’m just being helpful’ excuse, but you’re not the helpful type.  Maybe you thought you’d be able to piece together what we know.  Find out how far we’ve gotten in our investigation.”

“Last I checked, being helpful wasn’t a crime.”

He was lying, John could see it in the vein pounding at his temple.  “You can put me off for a while, but I’ll still be here, asking annoying little questions that might raise a few eyebrows.”

Jacob paused in the threshold of the door, one hand wrapped around the knob.  “Direct those questions to my attorney from here on out.”