call?”
“The manager of the security firm contracted by the Smith Tower is a long-standing, active member of the BDSM community. You should see her in vinyl, a sight for the ages. Anyway, she told me Smith Tower was vandalized last night, and the damage was located in Bishop’s office. Here’s the bad part.”
“Let me guess. Three people were murdered, and it was Laura’s office that was vandalized. Who was killed?” A crushing foreboding filled me as I imagined Laura Bishop lying dead in a marble hallway in the Smith Tower.
“Three security personnel had their throats slit. Cleanly. No struggle. Caught completely unawares. Whoever did the deed had been hiding in the building when it closed. All this is in today’s papers, but there’s more that didn’t make the news.” Three security personnel were dead, not Laura Bishop. I felt relief tinged with sadness for the poor guards who died just doing their jobs.
I focused again on Fitch. “Don’t tell me what you had to promise to get this next bit.”
Fitch was adept at trading use of her private dungeon for favors from people who liked to keep their kinks under wraps. Like the GLBT culture, there was an unseen BDSM culture that operated, unnoticed, under the noses of the average citizens. They supported each other’s businesses and helped each other out when needed. I was beginning to think half of Seattle’s couples kept sex torture toys in their bedside tables.
“Each guy had the letter I carved into his left cheek. Apparently done postmortem. But it gets more relevant and more off the record than that. Laura Bishop was there.”
“Damn, why didn’t you say so right away? Fitch, you know she’s—”
“Wait, wait. She’s okay. At least, she’s in Harborview Hospital, unrevealed to the press, and doing fine. She just happened to stumble into the whole scene. Her office was being ransacked and she walked into it. She saw the guy. He threw something at her, knocked her out, and carved the same I into her cheek. Bishop had called nine-one-one before being attacked. The police tracked the cell phone signal. The attacker either thought she was dead and left, or he was scared off. Anyhow, he got away, but they think he’s taken a ferry somewhere.”
“Who got a look at him?” I knew it had to be Laura who helped the police artist make that drawing of the swastika skinhead.
“Bishop did. Big Nazi-looking dude. Buzzed hair. Gold-crowned tooth. A twisted cross tattoo on his neck. Sounds like one of the bastards that harassed me out on Lopez Island the other night while you were doing hoo-doo with Elizabeth Stratton. How much you want to bet he’s the same guy?”
“Stratton again. What a farshtinkener day when I opened my door to that woman. I wonder if Laura Bishop was left for dead and they don’t know she’s alive and well at Harborview.”
“We’re talking Senator Elizabeth Stratton, wife of Jerry Greenfield, owners of a giant empire of bedroom snoops. If she doesn’t know yet, she will soon enough, and Laura Bishop will be in big trouble. I had to dig, but I got all this information. No reason Stratton’s toadies won’t do the same.”
“I’m going to see Bishop. Any idea what room she’s in, or am I pushing my luck with your skills?”
“She’s in room 445 West. Getting that piece of information is child’s play. But just so you know, it’s a secure wing. Good luck getting in.”
“I have my trade secrets too, Fitch. Dig around on Stratton. We need more.”
“Already in process. I’ll call later.”
When I hung up, instead of jumping into action and going to Laura Bishop, I sat for several minutes and pondered the agreement I’d made with Elizabeth Stratton. I’d never dishonored an agreement with a client, never even questioned the moral ramifications of my meddling. It was a winning formula, one that made me wealthy. Was there any reason to change? Was Elizabeth Stratton any more of a hypocrite than my other
“The manager of the security firm contracted by the Smith Tower is a long-standing, active member of the BDSM community. You should see her in vinyl, a sight for the ages. Anyway, she told me Smith Tower was vandalized last night, and the damage was located in Bishop’s office. Here’s the bad part.”
“Let me guess. Three people were murdered, and it was Laura’s office that was vandalized. Who was killed?” A crushing foreboding filled me as I imagined Laura Bishop lying dead in a marble hallway in the Smith Tower.
“Three security personnel had their throats slit. Cleanly. No struggle. Caught completely unawares. Whoever did the deed had been hiding in the building when it closed. All this is in today’s papers, but there’s more that didn’t make the news.” Three security personnel were dead, not Laura Bishop. I felt relief tinged with sadness for the poor guards who died just doing their jobs.
I focused again on Fitch. “Don’t tell me what you had to promise to get this next bit.”
Fitch was adept at trading use of her private dungeon for favors from people who liked to keep their kinks under wraps. Like the GLBT culture, there was an unseen BDSM culture that operated, unnoticed, under the noses of the average citizens. They supported each other’s businesses and helped each other out when needed. I was beginning to think half of Seattle’s couples kept sex torture toys in their bedside tables.
“Each guy had the letter I carved into his left cheek. Apparently done postmortem. But it gets more relevant and more off the record than that. Laura Bishop was there.”
“Damn, why didn’t you say so right away? Fitch, you know she’s—”
“Wait, wait. She’s okay. At least, she’s in Harborview Hospital, unrevealed to the press, and doing fine. She just happened to stumble into the whole scene. Her office was being ransacked and she walked into it. She saw the guy. He threw something at her, knocked her out, and carved the same I into her cheek. Bishop had called nine-one-one before being attacked. The police tracked the cell phone signal. The attacker either thought she was dead and left, or he was scared off. Anyhow, he got away, but they think he’s taken a ferry somewhere.”
“Who got a look at him?” I knew it had to be Laura who helped the police artist make that drawing of the swastika skinhead.
“Bishop did. Big Nazi-looking dude. Buzzed hair. Gold-crowned tooth. A twisted cross tattoo on his neck. Sounds like one of the bastards that harassed me out on Lopez Island the other night while you were doing hoo-doo with Elizabeth Stratton. How much you want to bet he’s the same guy?”
“Stratton again. What a farshtinkener day when I opened my door to that woman. I wonder if Laura Bishop was left for dead and they don’t know she’s alive and well at Harborview.”
“We’re talking Senator Elizabeth Stratton, wife of Jerry Greenfield, owners of a giant empire of bedroom snoops. If she doesn’t know yet, she will soon enough, and Laura Bishop will be in big trouble. I had to dig, but I got all this information. No reason Stratton’s toadies won’t do the same.”
“I’m going to see Bishop. Any idea what room she’s in, or am I pushing my luck with your skills?”
“She’s in room 445 West. Getting that piece of information is child’s play. But just so you know, it’s a secure wing. Good luck getting in.”
“I have my trade secrets too, Fitch. Dig around on Stratton. We need more.”
“Already in process. I’ll call later.”
When I hung up, instead of jumping into action and going to Laura Bishop, I sat for several minutes and pondered the agreement I’d made with Elizabeth Stratton. I’d never dishonored an agreement with a client, never even questioned the moral ramifications of my meddling. It was a winning formula, one that made me wealthy. Was there any reason to change? Was Elizabeth Stratton any more of a hypocrite than my other
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