Heart of Gold

By A.K. Smith

Lila Jane is an exclusive call-girl based in a high-tech suburb of Seattle. An anonymous blackmailer threatens to kill her if she doesn't do exactly as she's told.

She hires private investigator Rudy Sherman – who’s a sucker for a damsel in distress – to identify the blackmailer. Lila suspects a rival of sabotaging her business, but as Rudy’s investigation descends into the strange underworld of Internet prostitution, he turns up a host of suspects.

His task is complicated by escorts and johns who are reluctant to talk. Even Lila is keeping secrets from him, including her true identity. It will take all of Rudy’s cunning and persistence to find the culprit in a group that includes an obsessive former client and his jealous wife, a creepy neighbor with a history of sexual harassment, and a sleazy Mormon bishop.

With the blackmailer escalating into brutal violence, Rudy must track down the sinister truth using a combination of old-fashioned detective work and Internet sleuthing.

This is a hard-boiled mystery recommended for adult readers only. Contains mature themes, violence, profanity, drug use, nudity, and sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.K. Smith
• Release date: Apr 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458130952

A.K. Smith

Full of wanderlust and a professional sunset watcher, A.K. Smith writes books that will keep you up late. An avid traveler, she travels to find new settings to feature in her latest novels. If she’s not on the water or in the water, she is looking at the water. She spends her days working remotely online in either Mexico or Arizona. Her big loves are her husband, family, friends, and kindness. Her goal is to step foot on every continent on Planet Earth—she’s slowly getting there Follow her on social media or join her newsletter at seasidewriter.com. For fans of suspense and adventure lovers of all types. Check out A. K. Smith’s new novel, “Pseudocide Sometimes you have to DIE to survive” coming June 2021 “A twisty YA suspense novel” You can connect with A.K. Smith  on: https://www.aksmithauthor.com https://www.twitter.com/aksmithbook https://www.facebook.com/aksmithauthor https://www.pinterest.com/aksmithbook

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Heart of Gold

by

A.K. Smith

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © A.K. Smith, 2011

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced by any method, in any form, or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Cover designed by A.K. Smith

Seattle skyline photo Copyright © Suprijono Suharjoto | Dreamstime.com

Woman in red photo Copyright © Tatjana Strelkova | Dreamstime.com

Visit the author website: http://www.aksmithbooks.com/

Version 2011.04.25

Chapter One

I love you, he whispered.

Until that point Lila thought things were going well.

The stranger, a guy named Earl visiting from Cincinnati, had a sad but common story. His wife had recently died after a long fight with cancer. Lila knew that what Earl wanted was his wife back, not an hour in his hotel room with a strange woman.

I love you, he said again into her ear.

Lila knew she should repeat the words back to him. That's what he obviously wanted, and after all, he was paying.

She didn't have any problem faking an orgasm, although that hadn't been necessary in this case. Earl had proven to be an attentive lover, determined to bring her pleasure. That wasn't something she expected, but it did make the time pass more pleasantly.

She also didn't have any problem lying about her real name, which wasn't Lila. It was standard practice for escorts to assume a fake name to help protect their privacy.

She didn't even mind making up fake details for clients who were nosy enough to ask about her personal life.

She wished it was that easy to tell Earl she loved him too. She just couldn't bring herself do it.

She felt a moment's gratitude that he couldn't see her expression. She held Earl close to her and buried her face in his neck, moaning into his skin. It was response enough for him. He began to thrust again.

She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes left. If Earl didn't get any weirder, she'd be able to walk out the door and forget about him. He'd go back to Cincinnati and creep someone else out.

I love you, Earl said again. His breath came rapidly and raggedly.

Just three words. Why couldn't she do it? It wouldn't mean anything. It was just good customer service. She opened her mouth but the words wouldn't come out.

Mmm, yeah, she replied instead, in her bedroom voice. She ran her nails down his back and he arched against her. She could tell he was getting close.

A few moments more and his body stiffened atop hers. He groaned loudly. Then he was done and she cradled his balding head against her chest. He lay against her for a minute, then rolled off.

That was amazing, she said. She curled up against his side while he caught his breath. He stroked her arm slowly, his eyes closed. When he'd deflated enough, she took the condom to the bathroom for disposal, and returned with a warm damp towel to clean him off.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Sorry if that was a little weird, at the end, he said.

No, of course not, she said.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Lila was walking toward the paid lot where she'd parked. Earl had turned out to be an okay guy. He was just lonely, like many of the clients she saw. They'd talked well past the end of the hour, but when she left him, he seemed more relaxed. Some clients needed companionship more than sex.

A thin misty rain gave the Seattle streetlights a glowing nimbus, and left tiny droplets of water poised on her hair and jacket. She waited on a corner for the South Lake Union Trolley to pass, the iconic Seattle lightrail which had spawned a craze for T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan, Ride the S.L.U.T.

The light turned and she started across the street, the heels of her boots clicking on the moist pavement. Halfway through the crosswalk, she heard a revving engine to her right. She looked over and saw a light-colored car speeding toward her. The car's headlights were set on high-beam, nearly blinding her. She instinctively flung up a hand to shade her eyes. She ran forward, unable to see how far it was to the curb.

Time moved strangely. The headlights grew closer, brighter. She heard the car's roaring engine in her ear. Then she was down on the ground, in the gutter, the car roaring past, a silver gleam in the night. She didn't know at first if she'd been hit, or had just fallen as she ran across the wet asphalt.

She crawled to the sidewalk, her heart thudding. A glance in the direction the silver car had gone showed nothing: the car was gone from sight. She looked around, but the street seemed bare of pedestrians. No one had seen the near-accident.

She took stock. Her knee was scraped raw, her left ankle throbbing in its boot. Some skin had scraped off the palms of her hands where she'd broken her fall, but not deep enough to draw blood. Her purse had landed a few feet away, in a trickle of water running down the street gutter.

Lila decided she hadn't been hit. She'd just fallen. Her first attempt to stand failed when she put too much weight on her ankle. She gave it another try and managed it. She limped over and picked her purse out of the gutter.

She thought about what to do next. She'd hardly seen the car. She couldn't even be certain it was silver. It could have been white or platinum, some other light color. She hadn't glimpsed the driver at all. Probably a drunk, getting an early start on the weekend. She decided she might as well go home and tend to her scrapes and bruises.

* * *

The following evening, right after she ordered a pizza from Pagliacci, her iPhone buzzed in her hand. A new email had come in. She didn't recognize the sender, but the subject line definitely caught her attention, and she opened the mail.

From: [e-mail]

To: [e-mail]

Subject: I know what your doing

I know what your doing and you better stop or else your gonna be roadkill. I wont miss again. Dont think you can fool me. I'm watching you bitch. Stop turning tricks or your dead.

Attached to the email were five photos. The first one showed Lila exiting the townhouse where she did most of her business. Goosebumps prickled her arms with a sudden chill. Outcalls to businessmen like Earl were a small part of her business. Most of her clients were regulars, locals, who came to see her at her incall.

She re-read the email twice, confused. She understood the words, understood the threat. Someone knew where she worked. Someone had been following her. Someone had tried to kill her yesterday. She just couldn't figure out why. It didn't make any sense. Who would want to kill her?

She glanced at the rest of the photos. Like the photo of her, they all showed people exiting the townhouse. The second photo showed Jenny, one of the other escorts she shared the incall apartment with. The next two were of men she didn't recognize. The final was a client she'd seen earlier that day. She flipped back to the photo of herself. That was the outfit she'd worn to work today. These photos had just been taken.

Her roommate Nick came in from his bedroom, fresh from the shower. Did you order? he asked.

She didn't answer, still staring at the email.

What's wrong, are they out of pumpkin gelato already? He came closer, staring at her. Seriously, what's wrong?

She handed over the phone for him to read. He paled under his Mediterranean tan. Shit, he said. He sat down beside her on the couch and put an arm around her. What are you going to do?

Nick wasn't just her roommate, he was her best friend. She loved him like a brother, although more than once she'd joked that if he ever decided to go straight, she'd marry him. She felt a sudden rush of gratitude that she had him to talk to. It wasn't like she could confide in just anyone.

I don't know that there's anything I can do, she said. I mean, I can't go to the cops with this.

I think the threat is a bigger crime than they could bust you for.

I don't trust them. I've heard too many horror stories from other escorts. Nick handed the phone back to her. Besides, I'm not the only one implicated in those photos. I can't expose my clients.

So are you going to quit?

I don't want to. I mean it's a business, I take it seriously. I've worked hard to be successful.

I don't want you to die, he said.

I don't want me to die either, she said. But I have bills to pay. I'm going to have to figure out a way to deal with this that doesn't involve losing my business.

* * *

Although the next day was a Saturday, Lila managed to convince her lawyer to meet her for brunch at Sazerac. Karen Jeffers was in her fifties, a plump woman with graying mouse-brown hair. Without her usual business suit, she looked motherly, like she ought to be knitting at a PTA meeting. Although Lila had never been arrested, she kept Karen on retainer and had consulted her several times for legal advice.

So what do you think? Lila asked.

I think you're in serious danger.

Do you think I should report it?

Karen paused for a moment, chewing a bite of her chicken salad. If you want to report it, you certainly can, although I have to advise you that you'd potentially be incriminating yourself.

So you don't think I should.

What I think is that at this point, it wouldn't accomplish much. You don't know who the sender is. The police might be able to track that, or they might not.

Or they might not even try, Lila said.

I think they would try. I just don't think they have the resources to try very hard. And any investigation they did would expose your business.

That's true about the email, but what about the attempt to run me over?

Maybe if you'd reported it immediately, or gotten a license plate number. But you said you're not even certain of the car's color or make, much less the plate.

So you don't have any suggestions. Lila made it a statement, rather than a question. She pushed her Creole Eggs Benedict around the plate with her fork.

I didn't say that. I think that if you had more information, it would be a good idea to go to the police then. Then you know they wouldn't be poking around your business in vain.

So how do I get more information? I don't want to wait for another attempt on my life.

There's a private investigator I work with sometimes. If he can figure out who's behind this, and maybe get some solid evidence, then we can go to the police.

* * *

Three thousand dollars. That's what it would cost to hire this private eye for a week. Karen said if they didn't get results within a week, there was no point in throwing good money after bad.

Three thousand dollars. Lila gathered it together when she got home. Six hundred from her purse, from Friday's dates. Five hundred in twenties from a Ziploc baggie buried in the flour jar. Two Benjamins in the liner notes of a Miles Davis CD. Another tight roll of twenties, ten in total, hidden inside a wrapper in her box of tampons under the bathroom sink. One grand in hundreds behind the faceplate of her bedroom's lightswitch. The final five hundred she retrieved from a pocket slit in the bottom of the living room curtains. She had a bit more hidden, but the three grand made a pretty big dent in her cash savings.

She counted and re-counted the bills. Then she set them down on the coffee table and stared at them. She thought about just taking the money and leaving town, starting over in a new city. But she had so many friends here in Seattle, and an established business. And she was just a few hours' drive from her family. There was too much to lose by moving.

She could try to find another job. She knew it was stubborn of her to refuse to give up her work. But for the first time in her life, her escort business had allowed her to be completely independent. She didn't have to depend on anyone else to get by. She didn't have to worry about budget cutbacks or layoffs eliminating her job.

The bottom line was, she needed the money coming in. Her ex had run up a mountain of debt in both their names. He'd gotten into house-flipping just before the housing market crashed, and charged many thousands of dollars in credit card debt for remodeling expenses. But most importantly, he'd convinced her parents to take out a second mortgage they couldn't afford, and lend him money. Lila had twenty different bills to pay every month.

She had to at least try to fight. She had a couple of ideas about where the private investigator could start. Maybe she could save a little money by figuring out a few angles before he got started.

Chapter Two

On the drive to the client meeting, Rudy called his office. His sister and business partner, Gloria, answered on the third ring. Sherman Investigations, she said.

It's me. I landed a new job for us today.

Did you run a credit and background on the client yet? This was standard procedure to avoid deadbeat clients and rubber checks. It also helped to avoid unethical jobs, like helping an abusive ex-husband find his former wife's new address.

No, but she's a referral from Karen, he said. Karen Jeffers had sent a lot of work his way over the years, and he was close to her and her husband, police detective Hans Ulsaker.

Still, let's run her, Gloria said.

Rudy checked the note he'd made on his phone when he talked to the client. Her name is Fiona Waters. I don't have any ID numbers for her. Might have more after I get a check from her. See what you can find with just the name.

What kind of job is it?

Some kind of harassment or blackmail.

Well, that's different. See if you can get some more info on the client? That name might not get me far.

Will do.

He hung up and thought about what he knew so far about the case. Gloria was right – it would make for a nice change from the usual. Most of their work fell into three categories. He and Gloria referred to them as 'cheaters, Tweeters, and repeaters.'

Cheaters, infidelity cases, were the worst. No matter what you found out, the client was never satisfied. They were unhappy if you did find proof of cheating, but if you didn't, they often became convinced you just didn't look hard enough.

Tweeters is what they'd started calling their pre-employment background checks, since a big part of that work these days consisted of reading what prospective hires posted on social networking sites.

Repeaters were clients who become addicted to running background checks on everyone in their lives. Often they were single women checking out men they were considering a romantic relationship with. Paradoxically, they often seemed mildly disappointed when Rudy and Gloria didn't find evidence of bigamy, felony convictions, or bankruptcies. It was almost like they wanted their dates to be scoundrels.

This client, on the other hand, had a real problem, from what he'd gleaned over the phone. It sounded like some kind of blackmail, someone using a secret against her. She'd also mentioned a physical threat. The client wanted to meet him yesterday, but he'd had his daughter for the weekend. First thing Monday, he promised her.

He sped over the bridge into Bellevue, an affluent high-tech suburb. Bill Gates was the richest resident in the area, but plenty of millionaires lived here, many of whom had made their fortunes through computer and Internet-related businesses.

Even apartments here were expensive. The complex he pulled into was beautifully manicured and freshly painted. Though the townhomes were narrow, like shotgun houses, they were three stories high. Rudy adjusted his estimate of the rents upward.

* * *

She didn't look like a hooker. Pretty in an ordinary way, she looked more like a schoolteacher or a secretary. The hookers Rudy had seen in movies and on TV didn't go for knee-length skirts and button-up shirts under sweaters. What she had going for her was all that red hair. It made him wonder about carpeting and drapery, but not in an interior decorating sense.

She met him at the front door, which opened onto a landing between the first and second floors of the townhouse. Now they were in the downstairs den, a garden-level room with a few windows high on the walls letting in the thin autumn light. A small room, it had the impeccable decor yet impersonal feel of a hotel lobby. An open envelope stuffed with cash sat on the end table beside the sofa, as well as a small laptop, currently