continued. Then, as the door opened, “What took you so long?”
Filthy stood in the doorway in an outfit that I can’t describe, because there wasn’t enough of it to warrant description. Suffice to say, north of a pair of highheeled boots almost identical to the ones Jillian was now holding in her hands, Filthy wore nothing that wasn’t black, made of vinyl, and skin-tight. Her couture didn’t provide much in the way of coverage, but let’s be fair: it did beat what I was wearing.
“Are you kidding?” Filthy said. “Took me half an hour just to lace one boot.”
“Well, he’s all yours,” Jillian said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She sauntered out of the room, then turned around and looked back. “For the record, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.” She closed the door behind her. Filthy locked it.
I arranged my face into as judgmental a look as a man hanging naked on a wall can manage.
“Darling,” I said. “I’m sure that whatever you have planned will be fun, but I should remind you that I am currently under suspicion of murder. Now is hardly the right time for this sort of thing.”
“Actually, it’s precisely the time. I’m not here for kicks—though I have to admit, seeing you like this does make me tingle in ways I enjoy immensely. But I’m here to prove a point.”
“That you look hot in skin-tight vinyl? I could have told you that.”
“That you, my dearest, are putting yourself at rather a lot of risk. What if Jillian were the murderer?”
“What if she was . Grammar, darling.”
“What if she were— look it up, subjunctive case— and I weren’t here? You wouldn’t be chained to a wall, you’d be floating in the East River.”
“Fine. Point taken. I’ll be more careful in the future. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Oh, honey,” Filthy said, picking up the riding crop. “We haven’t even started the lesson.”
CHAPTER 11
The sun was setting over Manhattan as I emerged from the subway station onto the streets of downtown Brooklyn. I still had a hike ahead of me, so I tried LuLu LaRue’s number for the third time, but still without luck.
Eventually, Filthy had let me go. She’d had to. She couldn’t keep me chained to Jillian’s wall forever—Jillian had other clients, for one thing, and needed the dungeon back. Filthy had tried her best to convince me to abandon my inquiries, and made her point quite...enthusiastically. But I just wasn’t ready to give it up, not when the cops seemed only interested in closing the case as quickly as possible using the most convictable suspect—me. If I didn’t figure out who killed Victoria, who would?
As a compromise, I promised Filthy I’d be more careful, and wouldn’t put myself at risk needlessly; in return, Filthy promised that if I got myself killed, her eulogy would consist of four words: “I told you so.” But she unlocked the shackles. When you’ve been married as long as we have, you have a pretty good sense of when you’re not going to win an argument, even if you’re the one with the riding crop in your hand.
Given a choice, I prefer not to worry Filthy. I didn’t have a choice. And anyway, there was only one suspect left. If the first four interviews hadn’t gotten me killed, how bad could the fifth one be?
Brioche à Tête lived and worked in a run-down industrial loft building with a bunch of other dancers, the kind of building not zoned for residential use that landlords rent out illicitly to artists for a few years to perk up a sagging neighborhood. As soon as the artists have raised the cachet of the area enough to make it fashionable (“the next Soho,” the realtor listings will say), the landlords anonymously tip off the cops about the illegal tenants and the artists are evicted to make way for people who are willing to pay a premium to appear fashionable and live around the artistic vibe. The artistic vibe, of course, is busy carting all of its crap to the next run-down
Filthy stood in the doorway in an outfit that I can’t describe, because there wasn’t enough of it to warrant description. Suffice to say, north of a pair of highheeled boots almost identical to the ones Jillian was now holding in her hands, Filthy wore nothing that wasn’t black, made of vinyl, and skin-tight. Her couture didn’t provide much in the way of coverage, but let’s be fair: it did beat what I was wearing.
“Are you kidding?” Filthy said. “Took me half an hour just to lace one boot.”
“Well, he’s all yours,” Jillian said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She sauntered out of the room, then turned around and looked back. “For the record, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.” She closed the door behind her. Filthy locked it.
I arranged my face into as judgmental a look as a man hanging naked on a wall can manage.
“Darling,” I said. “I’m sure that whatever you have planned will be fun, but I should remind you that I am currently under suspicion of murder. Now is hardly the right time for this sort of thing.”
“Actually, it’s precisely the time. I’m not here for kicks—though I have to admit, seeing you like this does make me tingle in ways I enjoy immensely. But I’m here to prove a point.”
“That you look hot in skin-tight vinyl? I could have told you that.”
“That you, my dearest, are putting yourself at rather a lot of risk. What if Jillian were the murderer?”
“What if she was . Grammar, darling.”
“What if she were— look it up, subjunctive case— and I weren’t here? You wouldn’t be chained to a wall, you’d be floating in the East River.”
“Fine. Point taken. I’ll be more careful in the future. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Oh, honey,” Filthy said, picking up the riding crop. “We haven’t even started the lesson.”
CHAPTER 11
The sun was setting over Manhattan as I emerged from the subway station onto the streets of downtown Brooklyn. I still had a hike ahead of me, so I tried LuLu LaRue’s number for the third time, but still without luck.
Eventually, Filthy had let me go. She’d had to. She couldn’t keep me chained to Jillian’s wall forever—Jillian had other clients, for one thing, and needed the dungeon back. Filthy had tried her best to convince me to abandon my inquiries, and made her point quite...enthusiastically. But I just wasn’t ready to give it up, not when the cops seemed only interested in closing the case as quickly as possible using the most convictable suspect—me. If I didn’t figure out who killed Victoria, who would?
As a compromise, I promised Filthy I’d be more careful, and wouldn’t put myself at risk needlessly; in return, Filthy promised that if I got myself killed, her eulogy would consist of four words: “I told you so.” But she unlocked the shackles. When you’ve been married as long as we have, you have a pretty good sense of when you’re not going to win an argument, even if you’re the one with the riding crop in your hand.
Given a choice, I prefer not to worry Filthy. I didn’t have a choice. And anyway, there was only one suspect left. If the first four interviews hadn’t gotten me killed, how bad could the fifth one be?
Brioche à Tête lived and worked in a run-down industrial loft building with a bunch of other dancers, the kind of building not zoned for residential use that landlords rent out illicitly to artists for a few years to perk up a sagging neighborhood. As soon as the artists have raised the cachet of the area enough to make it fashionable (“the next Soho,” the realtor listings will say), the landlords anonymously tip off the cops about the illegal tenants and the artists are evicted to make way for people who are willing to pay a premium to appear fashionable and live around the artistic vibe. The artistic vibe, of course, is busy carting all of its crap to the next run-down
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