Frank Devaroux, P.I. Case File 01

"Sure, Sariel. I'm going to head out now. Thank you for the game."

"My pain, sir. May I call you sometime?"

I nodded my head because I didn't know what else to do. The room was swimming as I got up and walked as steadily as I could to the door. Maintaining. That's what we called it when I was an active drunk. You had to maintain the facade of sobriety. Walk a straight line, keep it together, fool the observers. I kept it together until I was out in the parking lot.

"Frank, what the hell just happened?" Eloise demanded.

I really did want to explain, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was vomit. It took me ten minutes to stop heaving and then the only thing I could mange to say was "Drive me home, please."

I don't really remember the ride. I remember that it took time and that it happened, but that's about it. I know that I stumbled upstairs and took my clothing off enroute to the bathroom, but it's kind of blurry. I vividly remember dry-heaving in the shower; really, every last little detail. Stomach bile and hot showers don't mix particularly well so when I was pretty sure it was just the smell that was going to make me sick I wrapped a towel around me and went out to the living room.

"So Frank, what happened back there?" Eloise asked.

I nearly jumped out of my skin in fright. I'd completely forgotten about her. But there she was, in that really enticing black dress, sitting in the high-back chair with her feet tucked under her.

"You don't have that figure when you're working," I blurted. Yeah, smooooooth.

"I wear a vest. The club? Beating a woman?"

My stomach jumped a little. "That. That was a nightmare. Sariel is that species of submissive that refers to itself as a 'pain-slut'. Pain is exciting to them. Some of them even claim that they perceive pain as pleasure, like their nerves are switched or something. I've-got-a-secret is a game some of the locals play. They pick a bit of information and someone tries to beat it out of them. If they give up the information the dominant wins. That's the theory. In reality, it's generally about giving the dominant a reason to beat them and the submissive a reason to hold out. I saw the nipple rings, tats, and some faint scarring on Sariel's body and figured her for a pain-slut. I've got a secret was a challenge on more than one level. On the obvious level if I could beat the information out of her, I'd get it. Less obvious was the challenge of giving her a beating that impressed her. I just went for number two. She got an intense sexual experience and we got our information."

"That reminds me," I said, "how did you know to ask about Dallas?"

"Skylark Entertainment. A privately owned company registered to do business in five states but founded and headquartered in Dallas, Texas. Our victim wasn't listed as an owner or employee so I was looking for a connection. Think I found it?"

"I think that depends entirely on what happened to Uma," I said. "When Sariel calls I'll get a description."

"Are you going to see her again?"

"Not if I can help it. Are you sure you can't beat her? That's really not my scene."

"I noticed," she said. "What's with the puking? You weren't even twitching after someone tried to kill you but beating a woman does that to you?"

I tried to find the words to explain something I don't understand myself. I failed, of course, but I tried. "I don't understand people who enjoy pain and I don't enjoy inflicting it. No, part of me enjoys it and the rest of me really hate that part. It's... complicated. Let's just say that I really don't like hitting women."

"What if someone needed it?"

I'm supposed to be an investigator. You know? Putting facts together and ferreting out the truth? Eloise's last question just made it impossible for me to ignore the facts any more. Sure it was crazy, but in my experience that's life. Bear with me here.

"Take your dress off, Eloise."

She stared at me for I don't know how long before she stood up and pulled the dress off over her head. My first thought was, 'Magnificent breasts!' That might seem a little shallow, but you had to be there, you had to see. Admittedly, I'm a breast man, so I'm pre-disposed to be appreciative of the most obvious genitalia of the female of the species. But that also means I'm in a position to be a good judge. They weren't huge, but with good substance, and perfectly formed with tiny, dark, perky nipples. She was able to wear that dress without a bra. So that left her wearing a black thong and standing in my living room.

"I thought you were never going to tell me to do that," she said. Finally. She didn't say finally. Not the actual word. But I heard it.

"Have you thought any of this through?" I asked wearily.

She shrugged and I resolved that I was going to absolutely forbid her to ever do that again. Or maybe I was going to require her to do it frequently. The movement did... wonderful things with her breasts.

"I've thought about it since I was thirteen or fourteen years old," she said quietly. "It's not something a good Catholic girl is supposed to want. I prayed a lot. Have I thought this through? No."

"What's supposed to happen now, if this was a fantasy," I said, "is that I dominate you and you have a life-changing sexual experience that leaves you my happy and devoted love-slave. In reality, we're supposed to have an open and mature discussion of sexual desires and limits. What's really going to happen is that I'm going to bed and pray you're still interested in discussing this in the morning. I'm just... done. So... go to the bathroom and then crawl into my bed or go home and call me in the morning."

********

Sleeping alone sucks. No one really likes it, they just get used to it. Forgetting how good it is to sleep next to someone who cares about you is the first, and biggest, step in getting used to sleeping alone. So waking up next to Eloise was like suddenly regaining the ability to smell. It was wonderfully overpowering and I savored it. For her part, she snuggled up, pressing that warm, wonderful, willing flesh against me. I kissed her, softly at first, but I was so very, very hungry and she was so very willing.

I have always had a yardstick by which I measure right and wrong: the right thing to do is generally the hard thing. Not the physically difficult thing, but the emotional equivalent of taking a bullet for the President. If it hurts like hell, emotionally, then you're probably doing good. Which is a long way of telling you why I stopped kissing Eloise. It was the right thing to do.

We lay there, inches apart, each watching the other's face intently.

"It's not going to work, is it?" she asked quietly.

"No," I told her, "it's not. Someone would see us and it would wreck your career."

"What if I don't care about my career?"

"You do," I said simply.

"Shit," she breathed.

Silently, I agreed with her. It's a funny world. If you like to beat women, you're one of the boys. If you like to be beaten? The social acceptance prognosis is pretty fucking bleak. People just can't wrap their minds around the idea that someone might like to be occasionally dominated by someone they trust and share an emotional connection with. It's an all or nothing proposition within the narrow confines of their I-fear-the-unknown-and-or-different minds. Sucks to be a submissive. At least I get credit for being a real man. A freak, but a manly freak. At least, I get credit amongst the people I'm not interested in dating.

We spent the morning like that, wallowing in misery together because we couldn't be together. Don't ask me to explain any more than that; you've either been there or you haven't. I'm pretty sure I could have talked her into doing anything I wanted, but that would have been wrong; so I didn't. Eventually I realized that I was just going to continue sinking deeper into my despair unless I got up and did something. So I did; I changed the subject.

"I think someone killed Ronnie because of the way he was treating his submissives," I said as I sat up and walked away from the bed. After a long minute Eloise answered me.

"Because of Uma?"

"Yeah, because of Uma. Sariel said she was a real love slave, devoted. I'm guessing she had the same sort of cult-like obedience that Daria has. I want to find out what happened to her."

"Explain Daria to me, Frank," she said as she walked into the living room and pulled her dress on.

"Where to begin?" I wondered aloud, my eyes stealing some last glimpses of that wonderful body. "People get turned on by lots of things. Some of them are pretty sick. Some are just strange. Consider financial slaves; some women make a good living by allowing men to send them money. In return for the money, the men get abuse. Mostly e-mails, sometimes letters and phone calls."

"That's it? Money for abuse? What's the point?"

I wanted to tell her to shut up and let me finish; maybe gag her. I found it just a little bit amusing that my kink was acting up while I was castigating the kinks of others.

"The point is the poor bastards get a kick out of it. They find pleasure and satisfaction in the arrangement. Is it healthy? Debate at your leisure. But Daria... that's another thing. She was interested in the control. And I think she went too far into the fantasy. Giving all the money she made at a demeaning job to Ronnie was just one way of demonstrating the control he had over her. She was loving it, too. But I think Ronnie took things beyond the usual range of kink, and because Daria wasn't the first one he did it to, I wonder who was. Maybe Uma? But Sariel said he told her Uma was dead. So I wonder..."

"Where are the women that came between Uma and Daria?" Eloise finished.

I nodded. "Yeah. I've got no idea how I'm going to run that down. Please do me a favor and write a memo thanking me for my work and telling me that it's not needed any longer."

"Why?"

"Because a nice thank you letter from the police is a good thing to have and I suspect I might have to use investigational methods that would be frowned upon."

"Like restraining a source and beating her with a whip?"

"A flogger," I corrected her.

She pulled her shoes on and stood up from the chair, walking over and standing so close I could smell the faint remnants of the perfume she'd worn the night before. She gave me a long, long look. "Be careful, Frank. Someone killed Ronald and they might have tried to kill you."

I waited until she turned and walked away before swallowing.

"And I might not care that much about my career, Frank. I've got to think it through." Then she was out the door.

****

I spent the day on the phone and the computer, spending money I didn't really have to spare on an investigation that I hadn't been hired to solve. Not smart, but it felt right. Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. My instincts were telling me that Ronnie was a bad, bad man who'd deserved the death he'd gotten.

My computer associate had gotten back to me. The Obedient Sluts website was owned by Skylark Entertainment, a company out of Dallas, Texas. He'd found video footage of six women who'd been in the apartment before Daria, but he hadn't been able to identify any of them. They all had 'stage' names like 'Fuckme Master'. I'm not making this up, that's an actual example. I spent an hour e-mailing pictures of those faces to various contacts and asking if they had a name or information to go with the face. Then I started calling back the people I'd talked to about Ronnie's subs.

By the time evening rolled around I had a lot of notes, but no answers to my questions. Apparently I had been a little uncharitable in my assessments of my fellow freaks; Ronnie was as unpopular with them as he was with me, albeit for different reasons. It seems Ronnie had rubbed a lot of folks the wrong way. Rude was a term frequently used. Domineering, and not in a good way, was another. He'd been quick to demand obedience and respect from everyone and hadn't done much to earn either. But finally I was reduced to scanning my notes, hoping my brain would turn up a connection when the phone rang.

"Devaroux Investigative Services," I answered.

"Devaroux, this is Garza. I'm over at the Motel 6 off of Federal and I'm looking at the body of Kimberly Stevenson, a.k.a Daria."

"Shit!" I cursed.

"There's a newspaper guy here asking why we allowed a witness to be murdered."

"She wasn't a witness..." I started. But that was stupid of me; Eloise knew she wasn't a witness. But the reporter knew there was a connection between Daria and Ronnie. "Oh crap. Thank you for the heads up Eloise."

"You owe me," she said as she hung up.

I had Regina on speed dial.

"Franklin?"

"Daria's dead, Regina."

"Blast!"

"It gets worse, there's a newspaper reporter who knows about the connection between Daria and Ronnie."

"You're supposed to be making this go away, Franklin," she said sternly.

"If you want miracles, go to church. I sent you some pictures, Regina. I need to know who these woman are and you know everyone in the local scene."

I didn't ask for her help because I didn't have to. Besides, when dominants start playing power games with each other, things can get irrationally messy.

"I'll contact you," she said and hung up on me.

Dinner was prosciutto and melon followed by an asparagus risotto washed down with a bottle of San Pellegrino water. Don't look so surprised, cooking helps me relax and I like to eat well. My kitchen is probably the best maintained area in my apartment, it's certainly the cleanest. I was debating the merits of a frozen fudgesicle when the phone rang.

"I've got another secret, sir."

Sariel. "I've got another appointment, Sariel," I lied. "Would you take a rain check?"

"I'd really rather play the game, sir. Perhaps I could come by your place later?"

"I'd rather play the game too, but I've got a case I'm working on." Yeah, more lies, I'm a private investigator.

"Hmm.... Okay. But it's a good secret and I want a really good rain check."

"Done." What the hell? I could always leave town.

"That sub I told you about; Dana. I saw her picture in the Post today. On the society page. She's wearing the black evening gown. I'll see you sooner, sir."

"Yeah." I hung up the phone and pulled a pair of shoes on. Out of habit I strapped my batons to my arms and pulled my sleeves down over them. Because I don't like to repeat my mistakes I looked to see if anyone was obviously waiting outside my building with a gun. I didn't spot anyone, which isn't the same as saying there wasn't anyone there, so I went out and headed down the street to pick up a paper.

I must have heard something, because I certainly didn't see anything. But for some reason I looked around to my left and saw a blue car pulling up from behind. I threw myself to the ground to avoid the blast so the knife in the hand of the guy in front of me missed completely and I knocked the guy to the ground. Pure luck. Nothing more.

Now, hand to hand combat is a nuanced skill that must be practiced for years. The reason you practice so long and hard is because when you're in a fight, an actual ball-raising, sphincter-puckering, oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-die fight, you don't have time for complex thoughts like 'maybe I should try for the figure four arm lock'. Simple thoughts like 'motherfucker must die' are the rule. Anyway, that's what I was thinking. I got my hands on his knife arm and I did some stuff with my elbows, knees, and head. He did some stuff with his and he was a lot stronger than me. I flatter myself that I'm meaner, though. Smarter, too. Certainly more handsome, especially after I smashed his face into the concrete sidewalk a few times.

After that the fight went out of him and I crawled off and sprawled back against the brick wall of the building behind me to try to find some oxygen. I discovered I'd pissed myself this time. I think it was the knife that did it; bullets are abstract and look sort of harmless, but there's just something very primaly terrifying about a sharp piece of metal.

It took about ten minutes for the police to show up. I just waved at them. The witnesses were no help. Half of them fingered me for the attacker. Finding the batons on my arms pretty much closed the case for the beat guys. They arrested me and loaded pavement-puss into an ambulance.

I've been arrested before, but not so many times that I'm used to it and never while sober, so inprocessing at the police station took a little bit of time. As a possible violent offender they stuck me in a cell of my own and left my hands handcuffed behind my back.

Which is how Eloise found me.

"Jesus, Frank, you look like hell."

"I smell that way, too."

"That's you?"

"That's me."

"Tell me about it," she said.

So I did. Kids, if you're reading this, you shouldn't be. But if you are, you should always ask to have an attorney present when you make your statement. That's because it's easy to make an innocent mistake that the police can spin as a lie, also known as obstructing an investigation, which they will use as a lever to apply pressure to you. They don't have anything against you personally; they're just trying to do their job. So saying anything without a lawyer is almost always a mistake. But I did.

"Okay," she said when I was done, "they're gonna need to talk to you, but I don't think you'll have any problems. Your attacker walked out of the emergency room while someone was taking a piss break. You've got at least a couple of witnesses that say the guy came at you with a knife. Want me to call your lawyer?"

"Please. Ashenga Tyrese."

"You're kidding?"

"Handcuffed in a jail cell and sitting in my own piss? Not in your wildest dreams. Yes, she represents me."

She laughed. It shouldn't hurt when someone else laughs, but sometimes it does.

"I'll call her; you can owe me."

She hesitated for a moment and then, at a noticeably lower volume, asked "Is there anything else you need?"

'You,' I thought. 'I've already got the handcuffs and the cell...' Aloud I said, "No, thank you."

"A change of clothing?" she pursued, wrinkling her nose.

It was my turn to give her a long, hard stare, so I did. I knew what I wanted to say and I knew what I should say and I couldn't permit myself to say the one or force myself to say the other.

"A copy of today's Rocky Mountain Post," I said, instead. "I'd very much like to know the name of the woman wearing the black evening gown on the society page."

She looked puzzled and then, when she saw I was serious, nodded. "Later."

****

My lawyer is a large, black woman. She's loud, she dresses like a Jamaican psychic, she's abrasive, and she's good. She mostly does minority representation, but she's willing to make an exception in my case because 'Perverts are a kind of minority too, Frankie. Besides, you always pay on time.' With truth, and Ashenga, on my side it only took three hours to be cleared of suspicion and give a statement regarding the details of the attack.

When I finally got home I was done. I'd fought for my life and dealt with police bureaucracy and both of them are pretty equally damn tiring. I took a shower, I thanked God I didn't have any alcohol in the house, and I stumbled towards the bedroom. Enroute I saw the blinking light on my cell phone and decided that maybe the calls were important. So I snagged it and fell into bed.

The first message was from Regina; she sounded annoyed. "Franklin, what sort of a mess is this? One of those pictures you sent me is Karen Chomsky. It happens that I remember her, she used to come to the munches about two years ago. She stopped coming after she entered Ronald's service and I can't remember seeing her at any functions shortly after that. One of the others is Sandra Simmons. An acquaintance recognized her and related a similar story. Where are these women, Franklin?"