FogChapter 4
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Fog In The HeadChapter 1 free porn video
"Where's the fog?" muttered Linda Martens awakening lost in a strange bed again. Moisture clung to the window outside, too early for the fog to lift from the hills of San Francisco. The air still held the odor of cigarettes and cocaine smoked a few hours earlier, though the smoke had dissipated. And something else, something even more chemical than cocaine. Lifting her head, she groaned and let it fall back on the bed, no pillow catching it. "It's in my head," she said.
Turning fretfully to her left to look at the stranger who brought her to his apartment, actually the upstairs of a house on the border of posh Nob Hill and snorted lines with her and fucked her and smoked the cocaine stuffed at the head of the cigarettes, reluctance became pure horror. She hopped out of bed, naked. Her right side felt sticky where the blood coated it. Her one night stand bled out from his neck, the last of his life fluid oozing from the gaping wound.
She realized she held a knife in her hand, a huge Bowie knife, grasped when she jumped off the bed. "Jesus," she muttered, using the Spanish pronunciation. She heard a door open and saw a weird vision of a walking cloud surrounded by mist before disappearing and the door slammed. She listened for sirens. She realized hearing them meant it would be too late.
Grabbing the phone before the rings disturbed Sandy proved unsuccessful. Her deep blue eyes bleary from little sleep stared at me when I pronounced into the phone receiver, "Waikiki PI."
"Joe?" I heard through the small plastic speaker at my ear. "It's Chloe."
"Do you know what time it is, Chloe?"
"Sorry. It's an emergency. An old schoolmate of mine's in trouble."
"You know private investigators in San Francisco."
"She wants you, Joe."
"Which book?" Chloe had made me a regular character in her true crime books. Her latest, which described the rape/murder of my beloved Vy and the subsequent capture and prosecution of the monster serial rapist, became her most popular, missing bestseller status by very little.
"She's a fan, Joe. She's read them all. She hung out with Vy when 'to molt' played New York during their last tour. She interviewed her for the New York Rocker."
"A fellow reporter."
"Very freelance. Anyway, she's always wanted to meet you, especially when Vy praised you through the roof, off the record of course, but now she needs you."
"Is she there?"
"She crashed, took some of her stash of whatever and passed out in my guest room. She's a mess, Joe."
"And you want to deliver this mess to me?"
Chloe sighed. "We went to Antioch together. She started a year after me. Then she ended up at Columbia School of Journalism while I was there. The big city proved a major temptation and she quit. We lost track of each other for a few years, especially when I quit Columbia because of a lack of funds and moved to Berkeley to establish residency and finish my Masters. We're as different as day and night, but somehow enjoyed each other's company. I think I helped to ground her a bit. She's really quite brilliant, but utterly undisciplined and careless. And though it shouldn't matter, she's quite beautiful and much prefers men."
I laughed. "You're a merciless bitch, Chloe."
"She's easy, Joe."
"Stop it."
"She used to tease me about threesomes, claiming they're the best. I bet she'd go for Sandy."
"Stop it Chloe," sniggered Sandy. I'd put the call on speakerphone.
"Seriously though," Chloe said, "she got herself in major trouble. It seems she had a relationship with some guy from Columbia, the country, named Jesus who ended up abusing her. Sounds like a major macho scumbag who figured relationships necessitated slapping his bitch around. Otherwise he got no respect or some bullshit. She's not the submissive type, and when he played the macho abuser after a couple months of sweet talk and cocaine and good sex, she swung back. He of course stepped up the abuse, slugging her. She grabbed her purse where she stashed a can of mace and a straight razor, protection when she went downtown to cop drugs, and came at him with both. The mace caught him full face and the razor slashed his shoulder, gouging into his muscle. She split in a hurry.
"Problem was, he's a gangster, a drug trafficker. Not only had she pissed him off, but she knew too much. She stayed in New York, figuring it's a big city and anyone can find a place to hide. She stayed at an old boyfriend's in Brooklyn and a girlfriend's in Queens. The scumbag tracked her down. She screamed for her friends to call the police so he split. The friends told her to get the fuck out.
"Finally she decided to hit the road. She'd get odd jobs, waitressing at bars where she could work under the table mostly, but couldn't avoid her avocation and hung out at clubs and interviewed and wrote articles. But her paranoia made it so any Hispanic that looked at her for more than a few seconds sent her running, especially after publishing an article placing her at whatever east coast city she hid in. She headed west, avoiding Ohio, her home state, and Florida because too many South Americans or men looking South American lived there, but going everywhere else.
"In Salt Lake City of all places, she actually watched Jesus and some henchmen hanging outside her apartment building. She left with what she had with her immediately of course. Her paranoia seemed substantiated.
"LA became a sanctuary. She lived in a fancy house up in the hills, some well to do glitter rocker keeping her as one of his house girls. She actually helped with promotion and eventually with getting drugs for him, but kept pretty much inside the home. He'd take her to parties or to a gig or two, but she stayed out of sight for the most part for over a year.
"Then the guy turned mean one night, so she split and headed here to San Francisco. After a year she thought she might be in the clear. But last night she partied with some rockers and hangers on, ending up going home with one of the latter. He propositioned her with substantial quantities of coke which he supplied. After smoking the coke and fucking the guy and passing out, she woke up with his neck cut open lying next to her, her hand on the obvious weapon and got out quick."
"What did she do with the weapon?" I asked.
"She tossed it in the toilet with bleach and ran around the apartment wiping everything in sight. She doesn't know if she got to everything because she knew she had like no time before the frame was complete."
"She didn't kill the guy?" asked Sandy.
"I ... I wish I could say without a doubt she didn't. I haven't seen her in years and she's always been reckless, but ... the way she looked when she showed up at my door, she looked like a completely freaked out victim. That's the best I can do. I'd be really surprised if she killed this guy. Of course, she probably wouldn't have mentioned it if she had."
"So she met this guy at a party?" I said.
"I know. Witnesses up the yin yang. She's a stranger here, but I'm betting she knew them, being rockers, and they may have known her first name, but..."
"Turning herself in?" asked Sandy, knowing the answer.
"Yeah. I pleaded. She's sure it's a frame she'd never get out of."
"Can you drive her out of town?" I asked.
"Melody ... I can't. My girlfriend needs me here. Melody's stressing royally with this new Bistro she just opened and I need to calm her when she gets home. Me traipsing off with a cute blonde would drive her over the edge."
I sighed. "Alright. I'll grab the first plane out. Mom can pick me up. I'll borrow her truck. Find out what you can about the victim. I'm sure there'll be a write-up or something on the news. Call Kenneth and give him the full name of the trafficker and anything Linda knows about him and the name of the victim. I guess any of the party guests too. And obviously keep the silly girl inside."
"I owe you."
"I know."
"I mean I owe you for the book on Vy. I'll make it six percent with you helping Linda."
"In other words if this gets juicy, you want all the details."
"Of course."
"It doesn't make sense," said Sandy while driving me to the airport. We had spent the morning prioritizing commitments and completing the paperwork on the case successfully ended the night before, a busy junky costing insurance companies more money than they wanted to pay out as he burglarized several houses, taking mostly jewelry or small collectables. He led us to a fence who ended up with several other expensive items he hadn't changed to cash yet. We had celebrated with champagne and fucking well into the night. Having caught the guys late in the evening, it meant sleep had come only a couple hours before Chloe interrupted it.
Sandy could handle the jobs we had lined up for a couple weeks when I needed to host a secret gathering of rich jocks at Charlie's old orgy room. After that I needed to put my security hat on for some location shoot on Maui. The contract stipulated my presence. So I had a little over a couple weeks window to stay on the Mainland if needed to figure out the situation with Linda. Hating flying across the Pacific, I preferred at least two weeks separating departure and return.
"You're right, Sandy. It doesn't. How could she not wake up when some asshole slits the guy's throat right next to her?"
"Why wasn't she killed? And if the murderer used some knock out drug, how come she woke up while the guy still bled out?"
"I wonder if Chloe knows the coroner."
"Use the larger brain for this, Joe. Don't be caught with your pants around your knees."
"I will."
"You better, you man whore!"
She kissed me like it might be our last when she dropped me off at the airport.
After dropping my mother off at her home, apologizing for the briefness of our time together and thanking her for the use of her small Toyota pick up truck, I drove to Castro and parked in front of Chloe's home. Chloe embraced me when she opened her door. Our mutual respect and years of friendship had brought us close. I smiled at her statuesque and stacked, beautiful blonde girlfriend who smiled back with a look of relief. Then I saw her.
Looking like trouble from the get go, Linda presented a mess. Pale skin had yellowed a bit. Hair roots revealed the brunette truth below the bleach. The hair itself, shoulder length, tangled into a chaos of white straw in a bird's nest. Hazel irises had threads of red in a yellowy cream around them. Those eyes and the face surrounding them showed sadness and distress and a touch of the jones.
Despite everything, her attractiveness couldn't be denied. Perfect rounded features moderate in size and shape and placement on her face bestowed a European beauty, French and Scandinavian mix I figured, which, along with an undeniable if reckless intelligence projected from within, made her the focus of every eye in a room.
"Joe Solomon," I introduced myself to the troubled bottled blonde studying me.
Standing a little shakily, her hand still holding a wine glass nearly empty of red wine, her other hand reached up and shook mine. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice low and thickened by her cigarette habit, another reason Chloe's lover wanted her out the door. The ashtray contained an abundance of white butts. The apartment smelled of cigarette. It had always smelled of whatever delicious concoction Melody worked on when I visited them.
"Sit," I commanded. We sat at the small wooden table in the kitchen. Melody brought me a wine glass and poured out the half glass of Chianti left in the bottle. Offering some leftover muscles in marinara, I told her my mom had stuffed me to the gills to provide some time for us to visit. Denying her offer hurt me more than her. Melody always created delectable dishes. I really was stuffed, but also wanted to relieve Chloe and especially Melody of the pretty fugitive they harbored.
"His name was Ray Bostwitch," Chloe explained. "He apparently had begun a start-up software company with an Abdullah Baraheni, Abby for short. Ray's from Manhattan and Abby's from there too, though originally from Iran. His parents apparently knew the Shah."
"Did the police find any drugs?"
"Not a speck. Well maybe a speck or two."
"Are you surprised?" I asked Linda.
She nodded. "He had like an ounce of coke. He kept it in a stand alone safe in the bedroom with cash. I think he locked it, but it stood gaping open when I awoke. And empty."
"Do you know the coroner?" I asked Chloe.
"Not directly. I have an inside with one of the detectives, but nothing's come of it yet. I'm sure they're still working on the corpse."
"Anything from Kenneth?"
"Jesus Mannhoffer seems to have disappeared."
"Mannhoffer?"
"Yeah. Probably the grandson of a Nazi."
I chuckled. "A case filled with political escapees with shady pasts."
"What do you mean?" asked Linda.
"You know when the Iranians fled the revolution, they brought Persian heroin with them."
"I ... heard," said Linda.
"And tasted," I suspected aloud.
"Another lifetime," said Linda.
"Show me your arms," I requested.
"Fuck you."
"Please?"
Linda shrugged and pulled up the extra long sleeves of the shirt she'd borrowed from Chloe's statuesque lover. Whispers of track marks showed, but nothing at all recent.
"I'm surprised," I said. "What with all the drugs you've surrounded yourself with, why not inject?"
"The fear of AIDS and ... well ... death. I stopped doing heroin three years ago and shooting up my preferred drug freaked me out. The last time I thought my heart stopped."
"But you still smoke it."
"It's not like crack. I mean I mostly snort it, but occasionally I smoke it when I'm feeling crazy."
"Like last night."
Linda nodded, her face tightened holding back hysterics. "Maybe..." she murmured quietly, " ... maybe I wish the murderer had done the same to me." Eyes glistened, but she continued to hold back. "When I escaped Rocky, I realized how ridiculously stupid I am. Of course he'd end up treating me like some chattel, no better than a slave. I've been a slave to dick, to dickheads, and the drugs they bestow on their useless whore to keep me chained to them."
I changed the subject abruptly. "Where's your stuff?"
"Hunh? Oh. I haven't got much. I'm staying at a cheap motel near the courthouse."
"Let's go. Do you need to change?"
"Keep the shirt, Linda," said Melody.
"Thanks. I'll just pull on my pants."
"Never mind about them," said Chloe. "They're ... too stained." The two lesbians contemplated the situation. Chloe had short legs and Melody's legs seemed to gracefully go on forever. Linda's, being another aspect of her moderate perfection, measured in between. "Here," said Chloe with a chuckle. She tossed Linda a peasant skirt a hippy chick would have adored, made up of multi-colored rags subdued by many washes. Chloe shrugged. "I wore it at a 60's masquerade party," she explained.
Linda borrowed a scarf to tighten the skirt onto her narrow waist, Chloe being on the chubby side. She giggled. "I'd never be caught dead wearing anything like this. Maybe it's time for a change." The dress ended up showing half her calves.
"If you need coaching on hippiedom, call my mother," I smirked. "Thank the ladies, Linda, and let's go."
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