Lovely, Dark, and Deep: Stefan Kopriva Mystery, #2

1

Sometimes things happen for a reason. The optimist in me has always believed that. But now I know that sometimes, things just happen.

I sat and listened to Adam, sipping my Americano. We sat in our usual seats by the window, in just enough of a corner to be out of the way of the bustle of the morning coffee rush. I listened to Adam detail how his video surveillance equipment was responsible for catching a pair of burglars at an electronics warehouse. He was a former cop just like I was, though he still worked for River City PD as a technological guru. In this instance, his tiny hidden cameras caught a pair of employees on tape while they broke into the warehouse to steal a pallet of DVD players.

Adam was in mid-sentence when his eyes drifted right and locked on something over my shoulder. Oh my, he whispered, interrupting his own narrative. Now that is something you don’t see every day.

I cranked my head around and followed his gaze. All I caught was the tail end of a black SUV pulling away from the curb. What?

Wait, he said. She’ll be at the door in a few seconds.

I turned over my opposite shoulder, looking toward the door. I knew from Adam’s reaction that it was a woman, but I wasn’t prepared for what entered the coffee shop.

She glided through the front door in a burgundy dress. Her deep, inky skin only accentuated the color of the dress. She had a striking figure, all rounded hips and full breasts. She carried herself with an athletic elegance that most women would envy and some would despise.

Adam let out a soft, barely distinguishable whistle below his breath. Stunning, he said.

I didn’t reply, too busy looking at her face. Warm features etched on ebony skin, punctuated by dark, intense eyes. The woman swept her gaze across the patrons of the Rocket Bakery, settling on a table across the room. The older man seated there raised his hand to her in greeting. She flashed a smile and made her way to the table.

Lucky bastard, Adam muttered, his magical hidden camera story forgotten.

All I could see of the man was the white hair on the back of his head.

Her boss? Adam asked me.

I reached for my coffee and took a sip. Maybe. But I don’t think so.

The two immediately engaged in quiet conversation, leaning forward in their respective chairs. The barista approached the table, but the woman waved her away and continued to talk.

I turned back to face Adam. Check out her clothes.

Adam appraised her over my shoulder. Nice.

A little too nice.

He pursed his lips. Maybe she works at an office. You know, for a lawyer or something?

Those aren’t office clothes. That dress is formal. It’s evening wear.

Adam narrowed his eyes. "It is a little flashy."

A little? It’s red carpet material.

I suppose.

And it’s seven-thirty in the morning, too. What does that tell you?

Adam met my eyes. You think she’s a working girl?

I lifted one shoulder in a shrug and let it drop. Makes more sense.

It is a little early in the day for that sort of thing, isn’t it?

Maybe, I admitted. Unless he’s fooling around on a wife who thinks he’s at work.

Adam chuckled. Oh, I see. He’s taking a chip day.

I smiled knowingly. River City cops were as bad as cops everywhere about running around on their wives. Those women on the side had all kinds of nicknames and those names varied from city to city. Here in River City, they were called chips. I never figured out exactly where that word came from.  I was a cop for four years and never had a chip. But then, I was never married, either.

We returned to our coffee and conversation. Adam gloated a little more about his surveillance success. Then we talked about his family. He asked how I was getting along. But we steered clear of the dangerous subjects between us, those wounds that were still there, scabbed over and not quite healed. He didn’t ask me about Cassie, a recent love of mine that never quite panned out. I didn’t ask after any of the officers on the job that I used to consider brothers. That made it possible for us both to ignore what a pariah I’d become in the police department.

As we spoke, Adam cast frequent glances over my shoulder toward the couple we’d been speculating about. After about five minutes, he interrupted me in mid-sentence.

They’re leaving, he said, a hint of excitement in his voice.

I’ll alert the media, I replied with spare sarcasm, but I looked over my shoulder anyway.

She was on her cell phone, nodding her head while she spoke. He led the way toward a red Cadillac parked across the street. When he reached the car, he opened the door and rooted around inside. She hung back at the rear of the car, no longer talking but with the phone still pressed to her ear.

What the hell is going on? Adam said in a low voice.

A black SUV pulled up to the sidewalk on our side of the street. I could barely make out the features of a white male behind the smoky window glass. He looked about thirty-five years old and vaguely familiar in a way I couldn’t quite place. Had I met him? Arrested him years ago? I couldn’t say.

That’s the same guy that dropped her off, Adam said.

The woman met the younger man at the driver’s window and spoke briefly with him. Meanwhile, the old man retrieved something yellow from the car and stood beside his open passenger door. From this distance, his face was only a fleshy blur with white hair atop it.

I turned around and met Adam’s eyes. Her pimp? My voice didn’t carry much conviction.

Adam frowned. I don’t know...

White pimp, black prostitute? That’s not a very common combination, even up here in the lily white northwest.

I guess it could be, Adam said. It’s a new Millennium.

I grunted and took a drink from my coffee.

What the hell...? Adam raised his eyebrows at the events happening over my shoulder.

I turned back again and surveyed the scene. The woman now stood next to the old man and presented him with a gift. The package was the size of a paperback, wrapped with grey paper and adorned with a bow. He accepted the box and a perfunctory hug from her.

Where’s the envelope he was holding? I asked.

She’s got it, Adam said.

She turned then and strode back to the SUV. Sure enough, she clutched the thick yellow envelope to her stomach. When she reached the SUV, she handed it through the window to the driver.

If she’s a prostitute, Adam said, that’s the money in the envelope.

Awful lot of money.

Maybe she’s awfully good, he ventured.

She sashayed around the front of the SUV and toward the front door of the coffee shop. The swing of her hips spoke of sensual confidence.

Maybe, I whispered in agreement.

The SUV pulled away from the curb, took a right and disappeared from view.

I glanced over at the old man’s Cadillac. He’d closed the passenger door and now sat in the driver’s seat. His reverse lights were lit and a thin white trail of exhaust rose from tailpipe.

The door to the coffee shop swung open and in she came. She cast her eyes left and right, spotted her destination and headed in our direction. I followed her gaze and saw where she was heading: the ladies' room.

As she neared our table, her eyes dropped suddenly and caught mine. I felt a small electric charge at the base of my spine. A flurry of butterflies did a few quick flips in my stomach.

Her eyes were a deep, dark brown. I tried to read something in them, something beyond the cold confidence she was showing to the world, but I couldn’t get past whatever barriers were there. I thought I saw a flicker, but then the musky scent of her perfume washed over me and a hint of a coy smile came across her full lips. A moment later, she was past and I was admiring her calves and following her legs up to a sweet roundness.

"Je—sus, Adam whispered when she had disappeared into the restroom. That is a gorgeous woman."

I didn’t answer. She was more than gorgeous. She had a quality that aroused a mysterious combination of primal lust and tender affection.

Stef?

I looked at Adam. Huh?

You all right?

Yeah. Fine. Why?

Adam smiled. Because you looked like a seventh grader who just saw a high school beauty queen. I could almost hear ‘Dream Weaver’ playing in the background.

Shut up.

It’s true.

You’re the one babbling about how gorgeous she is.

He shrugged. Just stating a fact. You, on the other hand...

I what?

You were pretty gaga.

You’re exaggerating.

You need to get laid.

Thoughts of Cassie flared up when he said that, but then I caught sight of motion at the restroom door. She swept out again, striding past our table without a sideways glance. Her perfume filled the air, her passage spreading the scent. The smell evoked a sense of erotic mystery.

I watched her until she disappeared through the doorway. Then I turned back to the old man in the Cadillac. He backed out of angled parking space, pointed his car north and drove away. He turned right and disappeared.

Where’s he going? Adam asked.

I waited for her to appear on the sidewalk in front of the store, but she never showed up.

She went south, I said, more to myself than Adam. This is the most bizarre hooker and john arrangement I’ve ever seen.

Maybe they were already finished? Adam suggested.

I turned back toward him and shook my head. We saw her get the envelope, remember? How many hookers have you ever heard of who don’t get their money up front?

True, he conceded. Then what?

He probably drove around the corner and picked her up in the alley, I said. Then they go to the motel or wherever and do the deed.

Why the alley, though? Adam asked. He’s already been seen with her.

"But not seen leaving with her, I explained. If he picks her up around the corner, he has plausible deniability if anyone saw them having coffee."

Adam raised his eyebrows, accepting the possibility. Okay. But what was in the present she gave him then?

I thought about it for a moment. I don’t know, I admitted.

His sex toys?

I winced. Thanks for that image.

I’m here to serve.

Good, I said and slid my cup across the table to him. Serve me another cup of that.

He rose and carried our cups to the counter, where the bouncy young barista refilled them both.

I sat and wondered for a few moments about what could’ve been in that present she gave the old man. Then I got to thinking about her deep, dark features and found I didn’t really care much about anything else.

Maybe Adam was right. Maybe I did need to get laid.

2

Three days later, I sat down at Polly’s Diner for breakfast, opened the paper and almost spit out my coffee.

Councilman commits suicide! the headline raged. Below that was the subtitle, Reason a mystery, say police.

I shook my head in surprise and stared at the huge picture of a smiling Councilman Lawrence Tate plastered on the front page. It was obviously an official campaign picture. He wore the requisite blue suit. His hair was cut short and styled conservatively. A slightly blurred American flag was visible in the background.

Councilman Tate was the guy in the black SUV.

I knew I had recognized him. I cared about politics about as much as I cared about migration of the Siberian Caribou, so my exposure to local politicians was fleeting. Still, I read the paper a couple of times a week and watched TV occasionally. It was hard not to come across video or pictures of the mayor and sometimes city council members.

The article was long but not very informative. Tate had been discovered by his wife in the garage of their South Hill home. She called medics, who found Tate slumped across the wheel of his black Yukon, dead from probable carbon monoxide poisoning. Medics, of course, called police, who took over the investigation.

According to the article, Lieutenant Crawford of the River City Major Crimes Unit would not disclose which investigators were assigned to the case or what any of the preliminary findings were. However, he was kind enough to confirm that the councilman was indeed dead and that the police were investigating. The journalist that wrote the piece expressed some latent frustration at this, but that was Crawford’s modus operandi and anyone at the police department or the newspaper knew it. He’d been the same way when I was on the job, over ten years ago. He had to be close to retiring, I figured. Then I figured a guy like him would probably never retire.

I couldn’t sniff out any hint of a scandal in the event, other than the act itself. Any time a public figure takes his own life, there is always speculation about why. Was it related to politics? Or was it personal? Either way, the article in the River City Herald didn’t answer my question, even after I skimmed it a second time. I tossed it aside and munched on some toast. My thoughts drifted to the scene at The Rocket earlier in the week. Tate was the driver of the SUV. I was certain of it. That piece of the puzzle only raised more questions than answers.

What was a city councilman doing with a prostitute?

What was in the envelope? Was it money? Some kind of bribe? Or maybe pictures? Was he being blackmailed? If so, was it by the older man in the Cadillac? Who was he, anyway?

And what the hell was in that box that was wrapped like a present?

I sipped my coffee, my mind whirring. It’d been over ten years since I’d worn a badge, but I was afflicted with curiosity before I ever came to the job and the disease stuck with me after I left it.

Adam was supposed to meet me for coffee at The Rocket tomorrow morning. Maybe he’d have some inside scoop.

I finished my coffee, dropped a few bills by my plate and rose to leave. My knee groaned and creaked under the pressure, but I was used to it. Hell, I was used to a lot of things.

3

Adam flaked on me.

It wasn’t an uncommon event. His job with the police department was usually a pretty steady gig, but not always. Crime doesn’t keep business hours, so he was sometimes asked to do a rush job on a video tape or put together a surveillance set up at the last minute. That made him late at times and a no show at others. I simply accepted it. He usually explained the next time we had coffee, but I quit asking a while ago. I’ve learned to be more accepting of things.

I sat and read the River City Herald without much interest. The only article that seemed worth reading profiled the local hockey team, the River City Flyers, who were battling for a playoff spot. I’d been to a few games that year. Personally, I didn’t think that they had enough secondary scoring to get past the first round, even if they squeaked in. But hope springs eternal.

One of the baristas, a waif named Ani, drifted over. The morning rush had receded and the traffic in and out of the coffee shop dwindled accordingly. Being a regular brought with it the benefit of occasional conversations with the employees.

You doing okay? she asked me.