A Taste of Sin Read online

  “Sure. No problem,” I said. “He’s my man.”

  “Thanks.” She waved goodbye. “I owe you one.”

  After she left, I got comfortable on the couch with my laptop. I perused the usual news websites and caught up on local and world events although I found it all pretty depressing; murders, rape, and natural disasters weren’t exactly uplifting.

  Working with Carter gave me a chance to contribute to the betterment of society, if only in a small way---whether it was helping a dying woman like Emily Hodges discover the truth about her husband, or exposing a rapist pig like Gavin Cole.

  Occasionally, even when a case has been closed and our clients are satisfied, I’m unable to fully let go due to the nature of the individuals involved; a mild obsession sometimes forms and new questions emerge.

  Gavin Cole was one such menace and, deep down, I knew why: the case had stirred a troubling memory from my early childhood. A girl in my second grade class had confided that her dad’s cousin had repeatedly molested her. I wasn’t sure what ‘molested’ meant at the time; only that it was a bad word. She’d made me swear to never tell a soul, and I never did. A few years later the girl moved to a different town and I never saw her again. When I got older I realized I probably should have informed an adult about her situation. Back in those days the topic was taboo, but it still bothered me to this day. If I’d had the courage to speak up, maybe I could have helped her.

  Regret can be a powerful motivator.

  I typed ‘Gavin Cole’ into the search engine. One of the first hits was a newspaper article from a few weeks ago. I clicked on the link and his photo flashed on the screen. I’d seen the mug shot before---it wasn’t a flattering one. His cold, grey eyes were small in relation to his face. Sporting a sleazy comb-over with thinning brown hair, he could have been Donald Trump’s illegitimate son. The article offered the same information Carter had given me—Gavin had been arrested for statutory rape but got off with a slap on the wrist. The article mentioned few details about Gavin’s personal life; only that he owned a bar in downtown Bridgeport. The Rusty Nail didn’t sound like a classy place but Gavin wasn’t a classy person. He was a disgrace to his gender.

  I checked to see if The Rusty Nail had a website. No such luck. However, I did find a YouTube video posted with the tag words ‘Gavin Cole’ and ‘Rusty Nail.’ The title of the video was called ‘Hammered and Screwed.’

  I pressed play. The video showed two drunk, middle-aged guys sitting at a bar, trying to perform a rendition of Jimmy Buffet’s tune, “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.” The quality of the picture was bad, probably recorded from someone’s cell phone. I could barely make out their faces in the dark lighting but, behind them, I could see multiple shelves of liquor bottles and above it a sign, The Rusty Nail.

  The performance didn’t last more than a few minutes: the drunks couldn’t remember the words to the song, so they eventually gave up. The video jostled around for a minute after the fact as if the cameraman forgot he was recording. He then steadied and panned to the left. A card table was set up with four guys playing cards and drinking beer. The cigarette smoke was so heavy, I could barely make out the faces of those seated at the table. The camera panned more to the left and a woman came into view. She was fairly young, maybe twenty-five. She walked right up to the camera and kissed it, leaving her pink lipstick residue on the lens. The video stopped.

  A mildly entertaining snippet, but not very helpful.

  If there was a chance I could convince Danielle to talk to the police about her employer, maybe new charges could be brought against him.

  Was she working at the bar this evening? There was one good way to find out. I grabbed my coat and purse and headed out.

  Chapter 8

  The Rusty Nail, located in the end unit of a run-down strip mall, is the kind of place I stay away from. As soon as I drove into the parking lot I could see the type of customers I would find inside The Rusty Nail. The front door was propped open, and loud music poured out. A few unsavory looking characters stood outside the entrance, smoking. They looked me up and down as I walked into the bar.

  Once inside, I was accosted by the smell of body odor, cheap perfume, and mold. This was a rough crowd, most of the male population sporting grungy attire. The few women present had a similar edgy quality.

  I stood out in my buttoned-up blouse, jeans, and a belted trench coat. I heard someone call out, “Hey Cagney, where’s your friend Lacey?”

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure if the comment was directed at me, but then realized I was the only one in the place who even closely resembled a cop. I considered it a compliment.

  I asked the young tattooed bartender for a glass of red wine and he looked at me as if I’d just ordered a plate of sushi.

  “You have heard of wine, haven’t you?” I asked, keeping a good-natured tone.

  The guy laughed. “Sure, lady. But no one has ordered that in a while.”

  “What’s your specialty drink?”

  The bartender looked offended. “Um … a Rusty Nail?”

  I laughed. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? What’s in a Rusty Nail if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Drambuie and scotch. Over ice.”

  “Sounds dee-lish. I’ll have one.”

  The bartender rolled his eyes and got to work while I glanced around the place, taking it all in. To the left was a pool table. A crowd had formed to watch a game in progress. To the right, I spotted an old fashioned jukebox. An inebriated couple was dirty dancing to Guns and Roses. This was the spot where the card table had been set up in the YouTube video. Apparently it was a makeshift dance floor this evening.

  I turned back to the bar to find my drink waiting. I slid a ten across the bar, held the glass up to my lips and took a sip. It burned like fire all the way down.

  There was an empty stool, so I claimed it. I took my time with the drink and found, after a few sips, it wasn’t so objectionable; but I hadn’t come here for the libations. “Excuse me,” I said to the bartender. He’d been talking to one of the other customers and seemed irritated that I dared bug him again. “I was wondering … is Danielle working tonight?”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  “Um, not exactly.”

  He blinked at me. “I’m sure Danielle’s not interested in buying Tupperware.”

  A few of his customers laughed at his witty remark.

  “A bartender who thinks he’s a comedian,” I teased. “How original.”

  The bartender seemed mildly impressed. “Tell you what, lady. You tell us a joke. If it’s funny, I’ll get you Danielle. If it’s not, you have to buy the next round for my buddies here.”

  I took a few seconds to think it over. My neighbor Jackie is the queen of dirty jokes and I quickly summoned one she had shared with me. “Okay, I said, clearing my throat. “What’s the difference between a G-Spot and a bottle of Jack Daniels?”

  Everyone shrugged with expectant looks on their faces.

  “A guy will actually search for a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Ba dum dum.

  The bartender slapped the bar as he and his cronies howled.

  “Good one,” he said, smiling. “Sit tight, lady. She’s out back. I’ll go get her.”

  All of a sudden, I was the cool chick that walked into a bar.

  The bartender came back followed by a young woman in her twenties. She wore a tight, almost see-through tank top. Her hair and make-up reminded me of a young Madonna. When she smiled, a set of crooked teeth poked out. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  “Danielle Washburn?”

  Suspicious eyes studied me. “And you are ... ?”

  “My name is Sarah. Would it be possible to have a chat outside?”

  She appeared confused at first, but then my name must have registered. “What do you want?”

  “Just a quick word in private.”

  She whispered something in the bartender’s ear. He handed her a cigarette and lighter and
she motioned for me to follow her outside.

  Danielle strolled to the dumpster on the opposite side of the building. She lit up the cigarette, took a few puffs, and looked at me solemnly. “Carter told me about your ankle,” she said. “Cujo is a teddy-bear once you get to know him.”

  “That dog? A teddy bear? He didn’t exactly strike me as warm and cuddly.”

  She exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Look, if Gavin comes out and see’s us talking, he’s gonna get suspicious. So, why’d you come down here?”

  I looked around to make sure we were alone. “I’d like to discuss the tapes.”

  She blew another cloud of smoke away from me. “What about ’em?”

  “I’m concerned that Gavin is going to keep abusing women. Do you want to help make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know Carter gave you the tapes but was thinking, you should file a complaint against him.”

  “I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

  I scanned the parking lot again. “Did he threaten you or something?”

  She laughed, but I didn’t see anything funny about the situation.

  “Look,” she said. “I know Gavin likes to tape us having sex. It’s sort of his kinky fetish thing. I actually don’t mind it but then I found out from one of his buddies he was planning on selling the tapes … without even asking me. I doubt he was planning on sharing the money. Anyway, I beat him at his own game.”

  I could not believe my ears. “So Gavin knows you hired someone to retrieve the tapes?”

  “He was pissed at first, but he got over it. At least now he knows not to screw me … well, at least not that way.”

  “So you’re telling me I risked my life to break into his house to steal some tapes just so you could, what, sell them yourself?”

  She nodded. “I did some research. Do you have any idea how much producers will pay for top quality amateur porn?”

  I felt like slapping this girl across the face. “So, what about the two women on the other tapes; Karen and Jennifer? Who are they?”

  Danielle flicked her cigarette on the ground and mashed it with the heel of her pump. “Just friends. It turns me on to watch him have sex with other women, okay? They knew we were taping them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I felt the bile rising in my throat. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

  All of a sudden, her expression became taut. “Hey, you don’t have to tell Carter about this, right? He’ll tell my uncle. I don’t want to hear anymore bullshit lectures.”

  “Carter would never have agreed to this job if he’d known what you were up to.”

  “Hello? I know that but, let’s get real. You got paid, so why do you care?”

  “I didn’t do this just for the money. I thought I was helping someone in trouble.”

  Danielle put a hand up to silence me. “Shit. Here comes Gavin. Just pretend you’re a friend or something.”

  I turned my head. Sure enough, the guy looked like he was on a mission.

  I stood there, not quite sure what to do. I decided to stare right back at his scowling face.

  He was breathing hard by the time he got within a few feet of us. He reminded me of a ferocious rhinoceros, without the horn.

  “What the hell, Danielle?” he blurted out, ignoring my presence. “I thought I told you, only one break a night.”

  “C’mon. I needed a smoke. The place is dead anyway.”

  Gavin crossed his arms over his chest. “Last time I checked, I was your boss, not the other way around.”

  “Fine, I was just about to go back inside.”

  He tilted his head toward me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Sarah. She lives in my apartment building.”

  His eyes scanned me from head to toe, then focused in on my face. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

  “Don’t think so,” I said, trying not to flinch.

  Danielle shoved his arm. “Come on, Gavin, she’s not interested. Let’s go back inside.”

  Gavin sneered at me. “So what brings you here?” he asked, looking at my trench coat.

  “The Rusty Nail, of course. Danielle said it was the best drink in town. She was right.”

  The flattery was working. He smiled, all proud of himself. “If you come back inside, I’ll make one for you myself.”

  “Thanks, but I have to head out. Maybe another time.”

  His eyes focused on my chest. “I look forward to it.”

  I got back in my car and could still hear Danielle and Gavin arguing as I drove off.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning I awoke to my cell phone ringing. It was Carter. “What time is it?” I asked, a bit disoriented.

  “Eight-thirty,” he said. “Are you still in bed?”

  “Had a late night.” I elected not to bring up my conversation with Danielle and Gavin from the night before. I sat up and adjusted the cell phone to hear him better. “What’s going on?”

  “So, Paul Hodges arrived at his office this morning around eight. Martha is in place. When you log into the program, the GPS should update automatically. Can you check it right now?”

  “Sure, hold on.” I trudged into the living room and opened my laptop to sign in to the account. Sure enough, the blinking red dot appeared on the screen. Hello, Martha. “She’s working just fine on my end. Are you sure no one saw you around his car?”

  “Yep. I have some information on Paul. Are you awake enough to digest this?”

  I wiped my eyes and turned on the coffee maker. “What did you find out?”

  “Did his wife ever mention he was arrested for DWI?”

  That woke me up. “When?”

  “About four years ago.”

  My brain did a quick calculation. “That was before they were married. I think Emily would have told me if she knew. In fact, she said Paul didn’t drink at all.”

  “Maybe the arrest was an eye-opener and he decided to clean up his act,” he said. “So, what’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to go to his office today. I want to see this guy in the flesh. According to Emily, he usually has lunch at a sandwich shop a few blocks down from his office. I was thinking I’d stay close to see if he meets up with someone. I’ve got my cell phone charged and enough storage to put a professional photographer to shame.”

  “Okay, call if you need me. And be careful.”

  ***

  Paul’s office was located in downtown Bridgeport. I drove around the block a few times and scored a spot close to the entrance of the three-story brick building. The place was sandwiched between a hair salon and a jewelry store. I added eight quarters to the meter, got back in my car, and opened a granola bar.

  It was a sunny, mid-sixties day, so I rolled down the windows and breathed in the salty air. Bridgeport was a bustling tourist town during the summer and fall thanks to its historic architecture, gourmet restaurants, and picturesque water views. I’d lived here most of my life and, aside from the dreaded winter months, enjoyed the diversity of this seacoast town. The crime rate was low compared to most cities, but there always seemed to be plenty of work for a private eye. Spouses cheat, people lie and steal, and murders will take place, no matter where you live.

  My legs started to cramp after two hours of sitting. I got out of the car and walked around to get the blood flowing, all the while keeping an eye on Paul’s building. Good thing I’d dressed comfortably in black yoga pants, a cotton zip-up sweatshirt, and sneakers. It had become my official stakeout ensemble. If there was one thing I had learned, it was that sitting in one spot with tight jeans was a very bad idea.

  Finally, at ten past noon, I saw him. I knew it was Paul by the glasses and big nose. He took a right and headed toward the restaurants and cafés in the city square.

  I followed at a safe distance with my cellphone tucked inside my sweatshirt pocket.

  Just as Emily had indicated he might, Paul entered his
favorite sandwich shop.

  Was he meeting with someone?

  I waited a few seconds, then walked in and pretended to study the menu board. Paul stood alone as he spoke with a woman behind the deli counter. I took a few moments to observe his outfit. The “high-water” khaki pants, the stuffy corduroy jacket, and the dark rimmed eyeglasses screamed nerd.

  You can tell a lot about a person by their smile. Paul had a slight overbite and, somehow, it added to his charm. From ten feet away, I sensed a kindness about him. This man did not strike me as someone who’d poison his wife.

  However, I’d been fooled before.

  I stood to the right of the door when Paul exited the shop, plastic bag in hand. He stopped and looked at his cell phone, then made his way back to the office.

  Paul retreated back into his office building, so I took the opportunity to use the restroom at a nearby coffee shop. I grabbed some food on my way out, and returned to my car for another long wait.

  Paul finally left the office three hours later. According to Emily, today was a gym day.

  World Gym was mobbed. The smell of body-odor mixed with coconut suntan lotion stopped me in my tracks. The sounds of clanging metal, loud music, coupled with the bright fluorescent lighting gave me an instant headache. A woman smiled at me from behind the counter, her biceps thicker than my thighs.

  “Welcome to World Gym,” she said. “You seem lost. Can I help you?”

  “Thanks, no. I was just … looking for a friend.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “No, but I’m considering it.”

  “We’d be happy to give you a tour of the facilities. Cameron should be back in a few minutes to show you around.”

  “Thanks.” I didn’t want the damn tour. At least I bought myself a few minutes.

  To the left was a separate room, probably used for group fitness classes. I scanned the remainder of the enormous facility, but didn’t see Paul anywhere.