Bound to Die: Grunge City Mysteries, #1

1

Sweat. Fear. Piss. Shit. Dead body.

Court breathed in the foul air, recognizing it as part of the job and hating its familiarity at the same time. He fingered the jar of menthol rub he kept in his pocket. The elevator door swished shut behind him, giving him only one direction to move. Toward the smell.

Yellow crime-scene tape marked an expansive area beyond the only open door of the six rooms in the office suite. All were dark except for one.

Ivy gagged next to him, raising her wrist to her nose as if her scant perfume might cover the smell of death. I hate this part.

Court opened the jar, tilting it toward her in invitation. She hesitated, looking around before dabbing her finger into the paste.

It helps, he said as he dabbed menthol at each of his nostrils.

She sniffed loudly, wrinkling her nose at the menthol. I thought people got used to the odor after a while.

I never have. Don’t care if people think I’m a wimp. He held up the little jar. I prefer this to dead-body any day.

In the foyer, a woman sat upright on an oversized circular ottoman. Her long hair curled into wide, dark rings with a glowing smoothness straight out of a shampoo commercial. A thin gold chain with a sparkly heart dangled from her throat. Matching glints on each ear twinkled in unison as she moved her head. She looked like a banker, with the exception of her bare feet. And her nose, which was red, wiped raw. Her eyes met Court’s and her lips faded into a tight white line.

A uniformed officer checked their badges and handed Court the clipboard to sign in. Detective Pearson, I thought you guys would be here sooner. He dipped his head and smiled broadly at Ivy. Detective Langston, congrats on the move to Homicide.

Court checked his watch. Five forty-five p.m. It’s rush hour and a Friday.

Ivy reached for the clipboard. Thanks. Glad to see my first week is finally getting interesting.

A fresh case was always more interesting than slogging through cold files, but Court had never delighted in news about a death. Court recalibrated his plans for the weekend. A dead body didn’t necessarily mean there was a murder to investigate. Maybe they’d luck out, and the woman with glowing hair would confess to whatever they were about to find inside. He raised his chin toward the open door. Who’s running the scene?

Maclean. He’s inside. The officer pointed his pen at the woman in the chair. He’s already interviewed her. She called it in. He lifted the tape as they passed underneath.

Maclean’s the guy who writes mystery shorts under a pen name, right? Got in trouble for not changing all the names on something last year? Ivy asked.

Yeah, he’s not a bad guy. Good cop. He likes to get chatty, especially when he’s fresh on first watch. Court turned back to the officer. Tell Miss Tension over there we’ll talk to her after we get a look inside.

They crossed the common area toward the office in the corner. The sign next to the door said Allegiance Investments. Right on cue, Colby Maclean appeared from within, holding out his hands, barring them from entering. He pointed to a box on the floor. About time, detectives.

Court grabbed four paper shoe-wraps, handing Ivy a pair before covering his feet.

Maclean led them through the scene. The 911 came in at four forty p.m. I got here at four forty-five…

It only took you five minutes?

Yeah. Happened to be on a call at the convenience store across the street. Some kids making trouble. Didn’t even have to move the car. How funny is that? Anyway, so I get here and the door is open. Caller’s in there, pacing around in her bare feet. He circled his finger around his temple. I don’t think she’s all there, if you get my drift. Maclean swished his arm back and forth in front of a large wooden desk, tracing her path.

Small artsy crap and a bunch of leather-bound books decorated a bookshelf lining the wall behind a large mahogany desk directly across from the door. Two squat polished-chrome and pleather chairs sat across from the desk. It sported a green blotter with an iPad and a pile of unopened mail strewn across it. An old-style computer with a monitor the size of a moving box filled a corner.

A single shoe—a dozen buckled leather straps on a six-inch heel—lay next to the desk. Stilettos stuck out in a city where Birkenstocks were accepted as fashionable. It would match the outfit the woman outside was wearing.

So, Maclean was saying, "she stops when she sees me, points to this other door and says, ‘He’s inside.’ The smell was bad, so I knew without checking there had to be a body in there. Can’t miss that smell, you know? I go inside, and holy shit, you aren’t gonna believe this one. This is one for the books, I’m telling you. Hunter, the woman in the chair out there. She’s the caller, her name is Karen Hunter? Anyway, she calls this her therapy room. He laughed, repeated the phrase, jabbing two fingers of each hand at the air for emphasis. You ask me? I’d call it a dungeon."

Maclean led them into the empty room, indicating the path of approach to the body as he went. Court followed, grateful that the officer was competent with procedure. The designated path had been ignored in plenty of death scenes, mucking them up with trace evidence. He wished Maclean would stop talking, though.

What would it be this time? Brains all over the wall? Blood spatter everywhere? He swallowed, working his tongue over his teeth and lips, trying to get some moisture back in his mouth, breathing in the menthol to steel himself against whatever was to come.

In the center of the room, a man’s body hung amid a tangle of ropes. His arms were pulled behind his back. Purple rope was wrapped around them in a long neat coil, punctuated with a decorative knot every three inches. Black rope crisscrossed his waist, hips, and upper thighs, and supported the bulk of his weight. A metal bar attached to his ankles by thick metal cuffs spread his legs obscenely wide, giving them an intimate view up his backside. More rope pulled his ankles up toward the ceiling. One final rope cut into his neck. Each section of rope was attached to a Frisbee-sized metal ring hanging from a giant hook in the center of the ceiling. A pulley system anchored the whole assembly to the wall opposite the door. His genitals were distended and bloated, forming a deep splotchy purple along the bottom of the arc of his body. A mass of what was probably dried urine and feces stained the bamboo floor below.

Ivy let out a long, slow whistle. Holy….what is this place?

Court’s stomach flipped and settled into a slow burn. He’d never seen a person trussed up like a pig before. Not an investment firm, that’s for sure.

2

Court stayed rooted to his spot near the door as he worked gloves onto his hands. The latex snagged on his hair, prickling his skin. His sweat was already beading up, making his hands clammy. He forced himself to stand still, to take in details before moving forward.

He approached the body hanging in the center of the room. He had been someone. Someone’s son. Someone’s lover?

A massage table sat underneath a series of large eyehooks. A shoe matching the one in the front office lay under the table. A counter with overhead cabinets filled one wall. A tray on the counter held the biggest clue to what the space was used for—an assortment of sex toys that rivaled the inventory of a Lover’s Pantry.

Thick blocks of fabric-covered foam filled in the only windows. To keep light out or noise in? Both? The room itself had a deadening lack of sound, as if it had been soundproofed. Two doors stood open. Through the first, a modern square sink with shiny chrome fixtures out of Architectural Digest was centered beneath a simple round mirror. The second door opened onto custom-made walnut shelving stuffed with clothing.

The walls were painted in calming greens, and the lights were all fixed in the ceiling. A control box with a mini touch-screen indicated they were customizable. Mood lighting? A number of tracks with lights pointed at various parts of the room, including four obvious spotlights aimed dead center. A simple clock with large numbers hung on the wall facing the victim. Had he hung there watching the red hand sweeping the seconds by as he died? Court shuddered.

Man, it’s hot in here, any way we can turn down the heat? Ivy asked.

Maclean pointed to the thermostat. It was set at ninety-eight when I got here, but I didn’t want to touch it.

Opening the door had already compromised the temperature of the room, but Court didn’t point it out to Maclean. The switch was set to manual. He changed it to the automatic program and the screen flashed a reasonable seventy-one degrees. The heater clicked off as the system switched to air conditioning. He shut it down entirely. He’d already be in trouble with the ME for turning the heat off, and he didn’t want to risk adding cold air to his offense.

Any idea who he is? Ivy asked.

They circled the body, careful to follow in Maclean’s steps. Yeah, he said. Take a look for yourself.

Court dropped to his haunches so he could see the face of the man hanging from the tangle of flesh and rope. It was Berkeley Drummond—local entrepreneur, big supporter of the current mayor and the Seattle Police Department. Court had shaken hands with him once at a political fundraiser.

Court didn’t remember anything on the local news or the blotter update about the famous man going missing. How long could someone like Berkeley Drummond be gone before it got reported? Did anyone in his privileged world go anywhere for more than a couple of hours before someone demanded—needed—to know where they were? The state and smell of the body made it appear like he’d been here for days. The high temp had fucked them over in regards to actual time of death.

Ivy squatted next to him. Her cheeks paled. Oh, my god. Is that really him? How long has he been here? This is big. Really big.

That was an understatement. A couple days at most, I’d guess. But I’m not the medical examiner.

They stood. He pointed to the ropes holding the body in mid-air, indicating their path to the center of the ceiling and out to where the rope anchored everything to the wall. We can probably rule out suicide.

Probably? You think?

Sarcasm, much? Langston, this is your first gig. You can’t assume murder without considering the alternatives.

"Oh, come on. It’s obvious he didn’t do this to himself. Someone else had to do that. She thrust an accusatory finger toward the mess of ropes. That says murder to me."

"Homicide, probably. We still don’t know for certain. And, if it was homicide, we still don’t know if it was murder. Court’s tone had taken on that of someone lecturing a child. He checked himself, shifted gears. Maybe his death was an accident."

It might have started off as an accident, but someone tied him, left him for dead. They even turned up the heat to mess with the time of death.

It’s possible it started out as consensual BDSM shit, and the guy died of a heart attack. The person tying him up ran scared. Court studied the mechanism holding up the body. He couldn’t imagine how Berkeley Drummond could have done this to himself.

3

Let’s check the place out while we wait for the ME to show up. Maclean, what’s the ETA from the ME’s office? Court asked.

Didn’t get one. Said they’d send someone over. You want me to call them for a status update?

It was already six o’clock. The King County Medical Examiner’s office was less than half a mile away. The docs had probably all left for the evening when the call came in, so they would have had to get the on-call doc in from wherever. No, they’ll get here when they get here. Thanks, Maclean, we’ll take it from here. Make sure someone’s taping outside.

Maclean tapped two fingers to his forehead and left.

Court waved Ivy toward the other rooms. The bathroom was sandwiched Jack-and-Jill style between a small dressing-bedroom and the closet. Drummond’s clothing, even his underwear, was neatly folded on a bench. The ID in his wallet made it official. A shit storm of attention was sure to follow.

It had been three years since Court had been on anything that garnered much press attention. Multiple homicides and the Chinese mob were always great fodder for those vultures. They’d waited outside his building for weeks, circling him as he stepped outside, microphones shoved at his face, demanding answers and details. He fumbled in his pocket for a piece of gum.

Court held the wallet open wide for Ivy to look at. Five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills were nestled against the same number of twenties. Behind the hundreds were ten cashier’s checks, each made out to Allegiance Investments for ten thousand dollars. They were all drawn from the same bank on the same date, Wednesday.

A hundred thousand? Ivy let out a long slow whistle. I’m in the wrong business.

Transactions over ten K get more scrutiny. Court slid the checks into their own evidence bag, placing it in a box with Drummond’s bagged clothes. Everything would be checked at the crime lab for trace evidence.

Both rooms were orderly without anything obviously out of place. Whoever had been here had either been meticulous in a search, or hadn’t messed with anything at all. Initial search done, Court decided to interview their only known witness, at least until the other teams arrived. As they approached Karen Hunter, Court leaned toward Ivy. I’ll take the lead on this.

Ivy paused in her stride, offering an eye-roll worthy of a teenager. Of course.

It hadn’t been obvious to him that she wasn’t going to jump in with questions. Maybe he hadn’t needed to remind her he was in charge, but they hadn’t worked together yet and had no established rhythm.

Hunter watched their approach with a Mona Lisa-like expression. She stood only when Court and Ivy introduced themselves.

You’re the one who called this in? This is your…? He waved his hand toward the door, wondering what word she would use. Office? Play space? Studio? Dungeon? He’d heard them all used more than once.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She crossed her arms and tapped her watch. When can I leave?

This was going to be interesting. No, she was interesting. Soon. You can go after you’ve finished answering our questions.

Hunter glanced toward the elevator. You can ask. I might answer. My attorney should be here any minute.

She’d already called her attorney? Then why even ask when she could leave? What the hell? I’m merely trying to get a clear picture of all this. Getting your lawyer here will take time. Traffic is a bitch tonight.

As I said before, you can ask. I’ll answer what I feel I can.

Her voice was firm and confident, but she grasped her arms tight against herself. Maclean had said she referred to the room containing the body as her therapy room. It was clear she’d talked to Maclean, but had gotten control of herself since then. Well, all right then, Ms. Hunter. We were told you found the body and called 911.

I did.

Hunter’s dark brown eyes met his with a cool aloofness that betrayed her body language. She kept glancing toward the elevator.

This your office?

Yes.

Ask a closed-ended question, and you get monosyllabic answers. Court chewed on his lip for a second before continuing. Who all has access?

My clients.

She said the word ‘clients’ with deliberate care. You’re saying your clients can come and go as they please?

The look she gave him reminded him of a disappointed kindergarten teacher. No. They have key cards that let them come into the office right before an appointment. A limited, ten-minute window of opportunity.

In a town where computer programmers were barely outnumbered by MBA’s, Court bet there would be a way to hack her entry system. Going through her whole client list was going to be a bitch, and it would require a warrant to get it in the first place. If he couldn’t get her to offer it up voluntarily. What kind of service do you perform? The sign on the door says financial, but the inside says something different.

I’d rather not answer that until my attorney is here.

Ms. Hunter, I can assure you, all I am interested in is finding out what happened here. What you do probably has something to do with how Berkeley Drummond died in there.

Hunter lifted a hand to her necklace, sliding the diamond back and forth along the chain. I’ve been told to wait to speak to you.

It took a lot of effort to keep himself from rubbing at his temples. His head was beginning to throb a slow, steady beat. Okay, let’s try this. Why is one of your shoes next to the desk in the front office and the other in the room with the body?

Oh. She raised a hand to her mouth. Hmmm. That.

Court was sure she was hedging for time, trying to figure out what she could say. Before he could press her for an answer, the elevator door opened and a woman rushed out. Everything—from her neatly coiffed all-white hair, her hand-tailored suit, her leather briefcase slung from her shoulder to the tips of her Louboutins—screamed attorney. A pricey one.

Court nodded at the officer to let him know that she could come inside.

The attorney put a hand on Hunter’s forearm, squeezing it gently but addressed herself to Court, then Ivy. I hope you haven’t asked my client too many questions, detectives.

She offered her card. Bernice Wagner, Attorney-At-Law. Court was pretty sure she was involved in a bunch of cases recently with the ACLU, but he couldn’t name any of them. They were all civil-rights issues. A high-powered lawyer for a high-powered domme?

4

What’s a civil rights attorney doing here? Court said in a low voice, watching as the attorney consulted with her client a few feet away. Even if Hunter was worried about being charged with something vice-related, she’d want a criminal defense attorney.

Ivy shrugged. Could be the only one she knows. My guess is that Wagner can handle the basic questions, but would give her a referral for anything further.

And you think working as a rich guy’s dominatrix would be enough to cover the costs of an attorney like her? He bet her retainer alone would take most of his annual salary.

I don’t know. She probably makes huge bucks as a dominatrix. Think about the checks we found.

Prices have risen since I worked vice. There’s no way he was paying her ten K a pop.

Ivy nodded. This setup is pretty high-end, but nothing is that high-end.

Court opened his phone’s browser, searched Karen Hunter, and found nothing. Bernice Wagner, on the other hand, brought up hundreds of hits. He scanned the links until Hunter and her lawyer turned back toward them. Of interest was Wagner’s representation of a class action on behalf of several thousand women and men seeking to legitimize many kinds of sex work—prostitution, professional handicap companionship, domination among them. He held the phone’s screen toward Ivy. I bet they know each other from this.

Wagner approached them. Detectives, we know how things work. Get my client full immunity on anything vice-related, and I’ll let her answer your questions.

Court had already figured this was the main issue. All they had in the other room were a bunch of perfectly legal sex toys. The cashier’s checks could be payment to Hunter for a car she was selling him, could be for anything. Bending the rules a little bit might go a long way in this case. You know we don’t have that kind of authority. But, we’re here to figure out what happened to the deceased, not ding her for her profession.

Ms. Hunter is very upset about this. She wants to cooperate, but can’t until certain assurances are made.

Court knew that the only way Wagner would make this kind of offer was if Hunter had given her enough information to make it clear that anything she said wouldn’t lead to her arrest. We’ll talk to the D.A. about a deal. You get your client to answer our questions for us, first. Establish some basic facts. We can see where things go from there.

Wagner studied him for an uncomfortable length of time before nodding. Do you have a time frame for the death?

Nope. No idea. Even if he did have a clear idea at this point, he would want to hear what Hunter had to say before telling them.

Wagner’s lips twitched. Let’s take it question by question then. You ask, I tell her whether or not to answer.

How about I ask her the obvious… Did she kill or somehow cause the death of Berkeley Drummond? Could save us a lot of time.

Wagner shook her head, rolling her eyes with a lazy, maternal grace. Nice try, Detective. Go ahead, read Ms. Hunter her rights, and we’ll go one by one. Maybe you can question her while your partner can call someone at the D.A.’s office and get a basic deal hammered out so we can expedite this. I have no desire to meet with you again this weekend.

Court glanced at Ivy, who was already pulling up her contact list on the phone. Verbal preliminary work for you?

Wagner swung her briefcase around so she held it in both hands, letting it bounce against her knees. Sure does. For the basics. Gotta give a little trust to get a little trust, eh, Detective?

Ivy turned away from them to make the call. Court activated his phone’s recording app, read Hunter her rights, and stated the names of everyone present, along with the date, time, and the location. Hunter stated that she understood what was happening.

Okay, let’s get back to the facts, Court said. Are you the Karen Hunter who called 911 at four forty this afternoon to report the body in the other room?

Yes.

Do you know who it is?

Hunter waited for Wagner’s go-ahead. Yes.

Anyone who had picked up a paper in the last four months would have recognized the philanthropist businessman, but he wanted everything on tape. Could you state his name for the record, please?

Berkeley Drummond.

How did you know him?

Another quick glance at the attorney. Another nod. He was a client.

Can you be more specific about what kind of client?

She smiled. A private one.

Court shook his head. Okay, when was the last time you saw Berkeley Drummond alive?

Wagner placed a hand on Hunter’s forearm. Detectives, we’re done for now. She turned to her client. I advise you to not talk to him further until he has a signed deal offering you all immunity from any vice-related charges.

Hunter squeezed Wagner’s hand. I know. But they said they would get the deal taken care of. I want to answer their questions and get home. Okay?

Wagner withdrew her hand and shook her head. Why am I even here? She raised a carefully manicured finger in front of Court’s face. I’m watching you, Detective.

Court wondered what it would mean to have such a high-powered attorney watching him, in addition to the inevitable press and SPD brass. "Okay, Ms. Hunter. Berkeley Drummond is dead. In your ‘therapy room.’ I would like you tell me exactly what happened here."

Hunter swallowed, taking in a huge gulp of air and releasing it before answering. Berkeley has… I mean had, a standing appointment every Wednesday evening. This week, I canceled because of an emergency. I arrived here at three o’clock Wednesday afternoon. I left around four, maybe four-fifteen. I was at the doctor’s office in Redmond by four forty-five and then at the hospital with my son. I spent the rest of the night at Evergreen Hospital. I was there until noon yesterday when my son was discharged, and I took him home. She closed her eyes for a second. Then, today, I realized I’d left my iPad here, so I decided to come in and get it after my daughter got home from school. She’s old enough to babysit her brother.

Women in the sex trade often had kids. A disconcerting thought. Maybe it was because Hunter lived on the Eastside. The long commute over the bridge across the lake into Seattle would drive Court batty. Your daughter. Where was she while you were at the hospital?

She was at home, with her dad. She’s okay babysitting into the evening every once in a while, but she doesn’t like spending the night alone.

Her alibi would be easy enough to check out. He took down the doctor and hospital information, then opened a HIPAA boilerplate on his phone. Getting her to consent to access the information was much faster and easier than a search warrant.

She signed without hesitation and with her lawyer’s approval. It was surreal. They were both being awfully cooperative. Maybe too cooperative. Had he missed an angle here?

Ms. Hunter, can you tell me what you charged for a session with Mr. Drummond?

I … don’t charge for my services. My clients leave me a tip or gifts when they leave. It varies.

"What kind of gift did Mr. Drummond leave each week?" Court asked.

Berkeley usually left me a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars. At Christmas, and on my birthday, he would give me as much as ten thousand.

Any idea why he would have ten cashier’s checks made out to you, each for ten thousand dollars in his wallet?

Hunter’s eyes went wide as her eyebrows drew together. What? No. I have … no idea. She turned to her attorney, mouth open.

Ivy returned to the huddle, interrupting them. You have a deal, Ms. Hunter. No charges on anything vice-related, if you answer all our questions about Mr. Drummond to the best of your knowledge and cooperate fully with our investigation. Of course, this does not clear you of the murder charges if we end up going there…

While Ivy spoke, Court watched Hunter carefully for signs or tells. She looked back and forth between Court, Ivy and her attorney. But the money? I don’t understand all those checks.

Wagner put a hand on Hunter’s forearm, stopping her, while addressing Court. I want the written agreement. Ms. Hunter can answer any other questions you might have tomorrow, once we have the signed deal in hand.

Court bit back a snarky reply.

5

They cut Hunter loose for the evening at the same time one of the county’s Medical Examiners made her appearance, followed closely by two assistant investigators and the CSI unit. Mary Coleridge was the ME on call. Court enjoyed working with her in spite of her somewhat creepy personality, though he’d never met a forensics expert who wasn’t sort of odd. It must come with choosing a profession in which you cut up dead people all day long. Things that sent him over the edge and running for a toilet didn’t faze her. And he had a pretty strong stomach. She would be just as happy picking apart a room filled with slaughtered children as she was an alley with a single bludgeoned drunk.

Mary had been a study in contrast from the get-go. Her elfin features and large eyes, coupled with her short pixie cut, made her look more like a blonde anime heroine than a geeked-out forensics nerd. It took him only a few minutes on their first scene together to learn that her appearance was utterly at odds with her personality.

This better be good. I had tickets to a show tonight.

Nice to see you too, Mary, Court said. I think you’ll find this one pretty interesting.

He put Ivy in charge of the front office area, leaving her to work with the CSI team there while he led Mary and her assistant to check out the body.

Mary raised her gloved hands. Don’t say anything. Let me do my thing. She circled the body twice, dropping to a deep squat to examine his underside several times during her inspection. At length, she stood up to contemplate the tangled mess before them.

Court hoped—maybe even prayed a little bit—that he’d never end up like this, hanging on display, all vulnerable and naked. In all the ways he’d seen people die, this had to be the most humiliating. He wanted to throw a towel over the poor guy.

Mary tilted her head. The room is soundproofed, isn’t it?

Court pointed to the funky foam on the windows. We still need to check and see if the walls are also insulated. But yeah. So, what do you think?

Mary clapped her hands, rubbing them with the exuberance of a five-year-old opening a birthday present. She bobbed up onto her toes and rolled back down on her heels before answering. He’s dead, all right.

Thanks, that helps tons.

She pointed at the thermostat. What was it set at?

It was too hot in here to think. It was at ninety-eight. The thermostat was on manual override, so it had to have been cranked up the entire time. Maybe I shouldn’t have touched it.

She shrugged. On-scene temperature is highly overrated, anyway. She turned to her assistant. Martin, go ahead and take a liver temp. Note that the surrounding temp has been messed with. The look she gave Court as she spoke made him want to crawl under a rock, in spite of her blasé response.

So, you think it was the rope around his neck? Court hoped she’d confirm the obvious.

Mary indicated the mess on the floor beneath the body with the sweeping gesture a maître d’ might use to seat someone at a fine restaurant. "Bowels often evacuate during asphyxiation. I will venture an educated guess that this is urine