Frostitute: A Twisted Tale of Extreme Horror Read online

"Hey, let me ask you something." Jim disappeared into the tiny bathroom, filled the glass with water from the tap, and threw it down his neck in two immense gulps. He refilled it and came back out into the pigsty that passed for his bedroom.

  "Anything you like. Within reason." Molly raised herself up on elbow. Her breasts bounced pleasantly at the motion.

  They damn well ought to. What is she, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Gravity hasn't taken hold yet.

  "Do you know a girl by the name of Chastity White?" Even in his present shit state, Jim watched her face carefully. He was looking for one of those tiny little tells that practically all cops knew about, like the deviated gaze when access the creative part of the brain instead of the memory center.

  In an instant, Molly's whole body language shifted, subtly stiffening at the mention of that particular name.

  Of course she knows her...and now, she knows that I know that she knows her. No point denying it.

  "Working girl," she said each word slowly, as though giving herself time to think. "Nice. Friendly. Why?"

  "Just curious." The words hung in the air between them, each of them knowing them for the lies that they truly were.

  "You're a cop. Cops are never just curious."

  "Point." Jim smiled. "A friend...no, scratch that, a colleague is working a murder case downtown. The victim was last seen making business arrangements with your friend, Chastity."

  "She's not my friend," Molly answered, just a little too quickly for his liking. "Is she in trouble?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Truth is, she seems to have disappeared."

  Molly thought about this for a moment, then said quietly, "This is about what happened at The Lucky Star, isn't it?"

  Jim just stared at her blankly, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. That was a time-honored interrogator's tactic. Most people just hated a long silence. It felt wrong somehow, unnatural.

  Never mind the fact that you're standing here as naked as the day you were born, Jimmy Boy.

  Finally, Molly cracked. That's what they all did, in the end. That pregnant pause had just been begging to be filled, and she really couldn't help herself. "We all heard about the preacher. Us working girls, I mean."

  "Heard what?"

  "Heard he got his tiny little dick cut off." She giggled nervously, a way to dispel the sudden tension. "Serves him right if you ask me."

  "And why would that be?" The detective rested his hands awkwardly on his hips. He didn't know where else to put them. Covering up his junk just seemed like the wrong thing to do. He would have started throwing on his clothes, but right now he didn't want to break the connection between the two of them.

  "Because he was a freak. A sicko." Molly grimaced. "He liked to hurt girls. Hurt some of them real bad, at least until the pimps put a stop to it. Even then, he had a rep for getting a little too rough."

  "Is it possible he finally pushed one of them too far? Like Chastity, maybe?"

  "One of them, sure. Chastity? No fucking way." The hooker shook her head vehemently. "That girl didn't have a single mean bone in her body."

  "Except maybe his."

  Molly glowered at him. "Not fucking funny, Jimmy. She's a sweet girl."

  "For a hooker, you mean."

  "Yes, for a hooker. We're people too, you know. Not just toys for johns to play with. If she's missing, I don't know...he might have done something to her. Something bad..."

  Jim went over to his underwear drawer and thought about what she said while he rummaged around for something to cover up his junk with. In his experience, there were generally three reasons why somebody connected with a murder investigation tended to disappear.

  Number one: they were involved, either directly or indirectly. Usually they'd had a hand in the killing themselves.

  Number two: they knew enough about the real killer to be scared shitless of them. To escape reprisals, they dug themselves a deep, dark hole, went underground, and pulled the earth in over their heads.

  Number three: the killer considered them to be enough of a threat (or just a plain old target of opportunity) that they got themselves retired. Permanently.

  He picked out the least ratty-looking pair of underwear he could find and slipped them on. Having his junk covered made him feel just a little less self-conscious, which he found to be pretty weird considering some of the freaky shit that he'd paid Molly to do in the past.

  Molly had her phone out and was making a call for a cab to come pick her up. Jim wandered into what might charitably be called his trailer's kitchen. Rooting around in the mostly bare fridge, he came out with roughly a third of a glass of orange juice that was eight days past it's sell-by date, and half a roasted chicken breast, the remnants of last night's pre-booze meal.

  Downing the orangey goodness in one, Jim bit off a big chunk of the chicken, demolishing it in just three bites. The rest didn't survive for much more than a few seconds. With the hunger void filled for at least a little while longer, he went into the living room to check his phone.

  Shit.

  He knew that number. It was work, and it had called three times. Luckily they were all in the past hour, the most recent being seventeen minutes ago, so he hadn't shit the bed too badly with the Captain. Jim highlighted the missed call number and then hit the green icon that would call it back.

  It rang three times, then, "Wentzl." The voice at the other end was calm but confident. It was a voice that radiated a distinct air of I'm in charge, so please don't waste my time. The Captain must have checked his phone because the next thing he said was, "Daniels, where the hell have you been? I've called you three fucking times already."

  That perked Jim's ears up. The Captain was one of the new breed, thirty-five years old and fast-tracked through the ranks, largely because of his advanced degree from Colorado State University and an ability to make the right political connections and sit on a diverse array of committees and task forces throughout his meteoric climb. Which meant that he never, ever used profanity. None of the new breed did. It was a great way to earn yourself a mandatory training course on 'diversity in the workplace' or some such bullshit, and probably a written reprimand to go along with it.

  Which meant that Wentzl had to be stressed out about something: Majorly stressed out.

  "Sorry, Cap," Jim replied in a tone which indicated that he really wasn't. "Had the phone set to silent. What can I do for you?"

  "Got a new one for you, and I need you to come in today."

  "It's my day off, Cap. I worked six in a row, as of yesterday."

  Now it was Wentzl's turn to sound insincere: his tone of voice managed to convey cry me a river, why don't you? What his mouth actually said was, "I'm real sorry to hear that, Jimmy. But this is a bad one. DiTirro's already there, but I want a second set of eyes on things. It's gonna be high profile..."

  Jim opened his mouth to protest, but Wentzl's next statement shut him down right away. "...and besides, it's one of our own.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jim waited until Molly's taxi was pulling out of the trailer park before climbing into his silver '03 Chevy Blazer and firing it up. It started on the third try, which was little short of a god-damned miracle, considering how beat-up the thing was. He'd ridden it hard and put it away wet for way too long, and with 175k on the clock, it probably didn't have that much longer left in it anyway.

  That's all I need. Another god-damned auto loan.

  As he gunned the engine to pick up speed along the on-ramp and then merged onto the Interstate, Jim's mind raced far ahead of it. When he'd asked the Captain who the murdered man was, he'd fully expected to hear about a beat cop that had taken a bullet in some late-night violent encounter with street hoods. The gang unit would have been all over that, and he'd have had plenty of support and backup when it came to identifying and then running down the perps.

  But it wasn't a patrolman at all, and the answer, when it finally came after a pregnant pause, rock
ed him to his very core.

  The dead man was homicide detective Jeffrey Forsberg.

  When Wentzl had said that the fallen brother was one of their own, Jim had had no idea that he was being totally and utterly literal.

  Jim didn't like Forsberg, any more than he liked Wentzl. In his eyes, the two men were both more about career advancement than they were about the job itself. He might have hit his glass ceiling (and hit that fucker hard) when it came to the police department, but Jim Daniels still cared about the people; the everyday blue collar working stiffs that, for the most part, wanted nothing more than to make their way in an increasingly hostile world without getting into any trouble, and somehow managed to get shit on from a great height for their trouble.

  He wasn't in it for the paycheck, although he wasn't quite sure what else he would do for a living, with his age and his very particular skill set: P.I., maybe? He wasn't in it for the power and the adrenaline rush, or to exorcise his personal demons by taking it out on others like some cops that he knew and loathed.

  Wentzl had given him Forsberg's address. Jim punched it into Apple Maps and selected the most efficient route. The dead man had a place out west in Golden, well away from the grime and crime that he was paid to clean up for a living. The subdivision was nice, about as close to the classic trimmed lawn and white picket fence type that you could get in this day and age.

  You can bet your ass it has a HOA.

  It was getting close to eleven when Jim turned into Forsberg's street. Three cruisers and a crime scene van were already hogging the parking space directly outside the duplex, so he chose a spot a few doors down. Despite it being close to lunchtime, five or six neighbors were still at home. They stood around in a single cluster, talking to one another in hushed tones. Every so often, one would nod gravely in the direction of the murdered detective's house, muttering something of great import.

  Fucking grief tourists.

  The patrol officer who was guarding the door looked suitably grim, returning Jim's good morning with a stiff nod. He stepped aside, allowing Jim to push the door open and enter the house.

  "It's a bad one, Jimmy." Detective Marc DiTirro probably had no idea that he was echoing Wentzl's words. From what Jim knew, DiTirro had no time for the officious little prick either. The two of them may not have been drinking buddies, but DiTirro was from the old school, just as he was, which meant that Jim afforded him at least a modicum of respect.

  "Homicide detective gets hit at home. How could it not be?" Jim accepted the outstretched hand and shook it firmly. They were both too old for that see how hard you can crush the other guy's hand bullshit. "Morning, Marc."

  "Morning, Jimmy. Hey, are you alright?"

  "Doing fine. Why?"

  "Your eyes...just a little red and bloodshot is all."

  "Tied one on last night with Dan Flaherty. Figured I'd be off this morning and I wouldn't need to get my ass out of bed until the other side of noon."

  Not to mention banging my favorite hooker six ways to Sunday.

  "How is old Dan...he still with Vice?"

  Jim nodded. "Yeah. In fact, he was telling me about Forsberg's most recent job."

  "Oh yeah. The case of the dickless priest. Best episode of Scooby Doo ever."

  Both men snorted, then checked themselves when they suddenly realized that some of the uniforms were shooting a few shitty looks their way. Most cops had a macabre sense of humor at the best of times, one of nature's finest coping mechanisms, but homicide cops were far and away the worst of all.

  "Sorry," Jim muttered, which was about as much of an apology as they were going to get. Then he switched gears, suddenly becoming all business. "So what have we got?" Fishing around in his pants pocket, he pulled out a pair of purple latex-free nitrile gloves and began to work his fingers into them.

  "Right this way." DiTirro was a big man, about six five and weighing in at around two-twenty. From the way he moved and carried himself, Jim highly doubted that much of it was fat. Leading the way, DiTirro ducked slightly to clear the doorframe at the end of the entrance hallway. Jim followed him into the living room.

  From the look of things, Forsberg lived a pretty spartan life. Well, had lived a pretty spartan life, Jim corrected himself as he took in the mostly empty room. There was a small two-seater couch and a recliner, perfectly positioned in front of a flat-screen TV and Blu-Ray player. And that was pretty much it. No tables to eat from. No desktop computer. Hell, there was barely even any artwork around the place, save for a framed Bachelor's Degree from The University of Colorado at Boulder (in International Relations, for fuck's sake) and a poster that revealed him to be, surprise surprise, a Denver Broncos fan.

  Then there was the blood. Jim was actually surprised at how little of it there was, considering the fact that the man laying on the floor in front of him had clearly been shot in the head. The corpse was on its left side, with both thighs together and the lower legs splayed out at different angles. Both wrists were bound tightly in the small of the back with what Jim thought at first was flex, but on closer inspection turned out to be a USB cable.

  Forsberg's face, or what was left of it, was...a mess. Single bullet, fired from close range, entered through the side of the head, Jim thought, copping a squat and giving the head a closer look. The entry wound, roughly the size of a dime, was a little forward and just above the right ear. Powder burns around the site had been caused by the expanding hot gasses that had propelled the bullet from the gun's barrel, which meant that the muzzle couldn't have been more than a few inches away when the trigger was pulled. A small stream of blood had trickled from the entry wound, disappearing into the shadows beneath the dead man's jaw. It had narrowly missed the strip of silver duct tape that was plastered across the mouth from cheek to cheek.

  The murdered detective's skin was pale and mottled on the plane of his body that faced the ceiling, yet the lowest part was a bright purple in color. Both cops had seen this condition, which was called dependent lividity, countless times before. When the heart stopped pushing the blood through the veins and arteries, it tended to leak out of the blood vessels and allowed gravity to pull it downward towards the lowest parts of the body.

  Which means that he's been dead for a good few hours. Probably since last night, at the very least.

  Neither of the homicide detectives was willing to move the body just yet, at least not until both it and the crime scene had been photographed from multiple angles. The crime scene guys in their white protective oversuits worked quietly and efficiently all around them, being careful not to get in the way of the two homicide detectives while they gathered samples from around the room.

  Jim stood up slowly, wincing at the ache in his thigh muscles, and walked carefully around to the opposite side of the body. From this new perspective, he could see the mess of blood and brains that had congealed beneath the left side of the head. It had soaked its way into the nondescript beige carpet in an irregular maroon ring.

  "Somebody knew what they were doing," Jim grunted, taking it all in and connecting the dots.

  DiTirro nodded. "This wasn't any Boondocks Saints Hollywood shit. The killer went for the cleanest shot, straight through the temporal part of the skull. Less risk that way."

  Jim knew that the big detective was right. In the movies, executions always seemed to involve the victim kneeling down and taking a bullet in the back of the head, which was why so many amateurs still did that way. Whereas pros knew that the optimal place for a head shot, short of ramming the gun's muzzle into the victim's mouth itself, was above and slightly in front of the victim's ear on either side of the head. The temporal bone was thinnest there, and there was a very superficial artery known as the middle meningeal. A much better chance of one shot, one kill, than firing through the bonier aspect of the back of the skull.

  "He wasn't kneeling either," Jim mused, his eyes tracking from the body to take in the surrounding room and back again. "I think they b
ound his hands and made him lay down. Then shot him from above while he was laying on his side."

  "I agree. If he'd been kneeling, there'd be blood and brains all over the place." DiTirro glanced around at the pristine white walls. There were a few small specks on the big patio window pane, but none that he could see anywhere else. "The floor caught most of the splatter. That's smart. Less chance of the perp getting it on themselves."

  Forsberg was wearing baggy khaki shorts and a faded Colorado Avalanche T-shirt. Perfect for kicking back around the house at night, after a long day on the job wearing a suit and tie. He squinted in order to examine one of the pallid arms in more detail. Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "On the face of it, this seems more like business than pleasure to me."

  "The Coroner will tell us about broken bones, but I'm not seeing any defensive wounds on the forearms."

  "Which means they took him by surprise. I don't see his service weapon anywhere. Wonder if he even got a shot off when they broke in..." Jim raised his voice toward the closest uniform. "Did you guys find any bullet holes around the place? Or Detective Forsberg’s firearm?"

  "Negative," the patrol officer shook his head. "We looked in each room but we haven't turned them over yet. Didn't want to contaminate y'all's crime scene."

  "Appreciate it." Jim's instincts were telling him that they'd find the dead man's pistol somewhere around here, and that it wouldn't have been fired.

  "It was a pretty slick break-in," DiTirro said, breaking his train of thought.

  "Huh?"

  "At first, it looks like your typical home invasion. No broken windows, but they kicked in the front door. Busted the lock." The big detective ticked the points off on the tips of his fingers. "Did the neighbors hear anything?"

  "Uniforms checked. Not a thing." DiTirro shook his head.

  Now it was Jim's turn to start checking off points on his fingers. "So they made entry, overpowered him at gunpoint, duct-taped his mouth, tied his hands behind his back, then tortured and killed him..."