The Tall Open Window

This is my entry for the Mickey Spillane / Mike Hammer contest.

Please be aware that this is mainly an old-fashioned detective tale, with a dash of sex and a bit of a twist. If it's non-stop, pounding lust that you're looking for, please feel free to check out the many other good entries.

For the record, this is a work of fiction and any resemblance between any person, group or organization in this story and in the 'real' world is purely coincidental. You bet.

Please enjoy.

+

The blood slowly pooling inside her body had produced

livor mortis,

faint wine-colored patches under her skin, just above the mattress. It was barely noticeable now, but would get darker with time.

I looked at the Medical Examiner's agent. "Maybe two or three hours ago," she said, very casually. To her, it was just a job, one that traded better pay for longer hours and nasty sights like this.

Lieutenant Sarah Cotton looked at me. "What can you tell me?"

"About what?" I replied, yawning. Sarah's phone call had knocked me out of bed at midnight and I was in no mood for playing Twenty Obvious Questions.

"Know them?"

"The little one," I said. "I met her, briefly."

"When?"

I ignored her for a moment, sat on the edge of the bed beside what was left of the pale, slim girl.

Innocence, I thought, that look of waifish innocence had made her such an item in front of the cameras. It was still there, still showed on the calm, sweet face.

"She got it first," I said softly, stroking a fingertip along her jawline in farewell. It was cool to my touch.

"You think so?" Sarah and I got back a long way, but this one was going to be on everybody's newsfeeds tomorrow and she was taking nothing for granted.

"Look at her expression," I said.

Pale eyes stared at the hotel room, blind for all time. There was no fear on the young face - what I could see of it from between the dark girl's thighs.

Her partner's expression, on the other hand, was full of shock, horror and fear.

"They shot her first, Sarah. She didn't see it coming -- the other one did."

"Where were you," Sarah said, looking at her watch, "between nine to eleven tonight?"

"Working. You can check with the bartender at The Soaring Joy and that big dyke manager at the McDonald's on 12th Street."

Sarah's eyebrows went up. From Mickie-D's to The Soaring Joy was about as far as you could go on opposite ends of the social and entertainment spectrum.

"Got a name for these two?" she asked, gesturing to the pair with her head.

"You tell me," I pushed back, just a little.

"Whoever did it missed a purse." She turned to the forensics team; one held up a newish clutch in her gloved hand. "It was under the bed."

"Got a name for them, Taffy?" she repeated.

"Only the little one," I said, getting to my feet. "Her trade name was 'Little Michelle'. She worked for the Hot Flashes studio here in town. I've seen the other one but don't know her name."

The two made a tableau many men -- and quite a few women -- would have paid a lot of money to see.

The two bare bodies lay on their sides in

soixante-neuf

, each one with a thigh resting over the other's waist, a hand clasping the other's bum and her head buried deep between the other's legs. Chocolate and vanilla, yin and yang. Well, in this case, yin and yin.

Two fans of hair, one blonde, one black, lay spread out on the sheet beneath them. There was surprisingly little blood from the wounds in the back of their heads and most of that had caught in their hair.

"Small calibre," Sarah said. "We'll have to wait for the autopsy, but I'm guessing.22 or.25. The bullets are still in their heads." She looked at me sideways.

"Not a.380?" I said, unanswering her unspoken unquestion. She shook her head.

"I know, Taffy, I know. Not yours. Not unless you've really downgunned."

"Sarah, it's charming to be invited," I lied, "but why am I here?"

Sarah nodded to the forensics girls. One held up a labeled plastic evidence envelope with a business card in it. I didn't have to look too closely; it was one of mine. Yeah, I still have them to pass them out. Not everybody I do business with is on the Net.

"Where?" I asked my own obvious question.

"Under the bed. Fell out of the purse, apparently."

She shrugged, nodded to the attendants to take them away.

I looked around. There were two sets of clothes hanging neatly in the closet and the sheets and comforter had been pulled off the bed and lay in a neat pile on one of the big chairs. What struck me was how otherwise sterile it all looked, how neat. A big chain hotel like the Plaza could make even violent murder seem banal.

I stuck my head into the bathroom. The towels were all still stacked neatly on the chrome rack and the paper strip certifying the toilet had been professionally sanitized to surgical standards was still in place. The trash basket held nothing but a couple of makeup pads and the toilet roll still had its end folded into that silly point that is supposed to indicate attention to detail or something

Asides from the two girls on the bed, the place might never have been lived in.

"Just the one purse?" I asked.

"Just the one."

I nodded. That was odd.

"Any ID?" I asked.

"The tall one -- Dawn McArthur. We'll be running it down."

"This wasn't me," I said evenly. "You know that, Sarah."

"Of course. Any ideas how your card came to be there?"

"Not a clue. I hand them out from time to time, if people ask."

"Did either of them ask?"

I turned away from the sight of the two bodies being separated, lifted onto a pair of wheeled cots.

"Not entirely sure. I can't specifically remember either of their hands being out, but a bunch of the girls wanted them."

"What girls?"

"Actresses at Hot Flashes."

"When was that?"

"Three days ago. I was doing a workman's comp checkup there, go figure."

"You're kidding me."

I shook my head. "Nope. One of the studio prop girls filed a claim for a herniated disc."

"Say what?"

"I know, right?" I interrupted her with a slight smile. "It just sounds weird, but yeah. In this case, she was trying to shift a spanking bench."

Sarah's eyes bored into mine. She was a good cop and had come up the hard way, back in the days when most female cops died a slow career death in Juvenile. There was little that could shake her, I knew, but I could see the effort it was taking her to stop from laughing.

"A... spanking... bench..." she repeated, very slowly.

"Yeah, I know." I grinned at her. "The insurance company thought the same."

"And?"

"My report said 'Plausible'. It got used for one of the studio's 'Lasses in Leather' series just before the claim got filed. The thing must weigh 300 pounds."

"You try it out, Taffy?" Her own grin finally blew through her natural skepticism. In her job, you took humor where you could find it.

"No thanks; not my style. They weren't using it when I was there anyway. It was stowed away in a prop room." I gave her a wry smile. "Hey, porn's a legitimate business now, right? Not quite Chamber of Commerce, but out in the open - taxes, up-scale offices. And insurance."

"So, you met these two there?"

"I spoke with Michelle at the time, briefly. The other girl was there, but we didn't speak."

"Tell me about it."

"I guess none of them had ever met a detective in real life, especially a woman. Souvenirs, maybe?"

"You give her one?" Same question, even from Sarah. Repeated questioning will draw out honest answers...

I knew the game. I used it myself.

I thought back. "It's honestly hard to say. There were like six or seven girls there, half of them dressed in nothing more than baby oil and eye shadow; the cards got handed around pretty quickly."

"What'd you talk about?"

"I really can't remember, Sarah. Just small talk with most of them at the same time.

'Are you really a detective?' 'Do you carry a gun?' 'Did you ever solve something big?'

The usual stuff."

"Taffy McFitch groupies."

"I wish. Cute, though."

"How were the boys?"

"None there. Hot Flashes offers a strictly vagitarian diet. Even the production crew is all women."

"Care to make a guess about this?" She waved her hands at the attendants beginning to wheel the two cots out of the hotel room.

"Not a clue," I answered quite honestly.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I left, ran my fingers through red-brown hair cut short. I didn't look as tired as I felt, but the brown eyes in the mirror had too much red in them to suit me.

But, yeah, it was

moi,

Taffy McFitch, private investigator. Just spare me the puns, OK? I've heard them all too many times. And no, I don't 'pack a pair of 38s', wise-ass. Mine are all natural and the gun is a Walther PPK in.380 that Granddaddy Jim brought back from Bastogne in 1945. Like a lot of things, bigger isn't necessarily better.

+

I slept in the next morning, no surprise. I thought of just rolling over and going back to sleep until Ragnarök, but kept spiraling down into a dream about the look on Michelle's face. That got me out of bed.

I turned on the coffee maker and headed for the shower - double hot, then too-darned-cold, then comfy warm. I got out of the shower feeling almost human and, toweling my hair, followed the smell of coffee. I ignored the flashing screen on my Iphone. Call me old-fashioned, but I have a phone for my convenience, not everybody else's.

My office manager, Vladimir, was waiting for me when I got to the office.

"You're late."

"I'm paying you how much to help me tell time?"

"Lieutenant Cotton's called you three times."

"Did she leave a message?"

"Just that she wants to talk and why aren't you answering your phone?"

I sat back in my chair, looked at him. When I went looking for an office bitch, I'd seen no reason not to hire one who would give me some reason to be happy about coming to work. Vlad was all man, delightfully so. Tall, with big shoulders and those crunchy tight buns I like so much. Today he was dressed in dark slacks, a sports coat -- with a silk tie, too. Vlad was habitually so well-dressed that I'd initially suspected he was gay. Then I happened to be having dinner with three girls who'd all dated him at one time or another. I think it was their shared happy pet name for him - 'Vlad the Impaler' - that made me spill my wine.

So, yeah, tall, charming, really good-looking and...

Don't think I wasn't tempted.

Not even the time he'd proposed.

But office romances are a bad decision and I'd put him off at the time. Looking at his eyes now, I wondered if it had been the right choice. And how long it would be until I made a good one.

I called Sarah. She wanted a statement and I told her I'd be right over.

I didn't know much and it didn't take long. As I was leaving, I realized that the police station wasn't far from the Hot Flashes studio. Technically I'm supposed to have a client before I start asking questions, but I decided to be my own client for a few hours. I left the beater parked in the station lot and walked over to the studio.

Getting in was no problem; the receptionist remembered me. There was however a security guard at the doorway to the actual studio. A red light on the wall indicated shooting was underway.

"Closed set," he said, holding his hand up like a crossing guard.

I found the letter from the insurance company, still in my purse.

"That again?" he said. "OK, but I can't let you in right now. Wait 'till the light goes out."

He pushed a stacking chair towards me and we talked for the next ten minutes or so. His name was André, he was 23, originally from Louisiana and was studying music -- by which he meant alto sax. He hoped to do that for a living someday, but right now, this paid the rent. He used a decent aftershave, his shirt had been properly ironed and he liked boobs. OK, his eyes kept dropping to mine. I had to give him points for trying to be housebroken, but girls got boobs and boys got eyes and that's the natural order of things.

I didn't particularly mind. I did my own looking. He had a well-trimmed goatee, good shoulders, curly hair, soft brown eyes and long, long fingers. Sitting there, I had a recurring mental image of those fingers on the buttons of my blouse and smiled inwardly. Girls get to dream, too. When he asked me for my phone number, I gave him my phone and soon enough heard his own chirp.

At last, the light went out. André picked up the wall phone, spoke briefly before hanging up.

"Ms. Cooke will see you now," he said, opening the door. I squeezed his arm in thanks as we passed, gave him a light kiss on the cheek. Never miss a chance to make a good impression, Momma used to say.

+

"Ms. Cooke?"

I had to ask twice. Directing takes a lot of concentration, apparently, even when everybody else is wrapped around a coffee.

Daphne Cooke was a tall woman in her 50s. She'd been one of the hottest 'adult stars' years ago before switching to directing. She'd been good at that, too, good enough that she now had her own studio. Although her hair seemed tired of pretending to be blonde, she retained a great deal of her original beauty.

She remembered me from before. It was an 'occupied' smile, but I was happy to see it anyway.

"Hi," she said. "Back on the insurance thing?"

"No, actually. I'm working on something very different. Have you a minute or two?"

She looked at her watch, shook her head. "Not right now. I've got another scene ready and I don't want to have to push it until after lunch."

"Actually, though," she said. "I'm glad to see you."

I raised one eyebrow.

"You're a private investigator. Do you handle other types of cases, ones other than insurance claims?"

"Some," I said. "What did you have in mind?"

She looked at her watch again.

"Can we talk about it over lunch?" she said. "My treat."

"Certainly. What time do you want me back here?"

"Actually, why don't you just stick around? Ever been on set before?" She smiled for a second, paused. "Unless... unless you object to... what we're doing here?" Her eyebrows were up. She almost seemed embarrassed, which surprised me.

"No problem at all," I smiled. I like boys in my bed, but girls are fun to watch. "Where do you want me to sit?"

A couple of the actresses recognized me as I sank into a spare chair, but they were on the clock now and merely waved.

It was clearly to be a boudoir scene. There was a large bed with frilly white sheets and pillowcases. The set had white walls with a couple of what looked like nice paintings and a tall pottery vase of roses. The lighting did a good job of simulating morning sunshine through a window.

Three actresses were standing by, waiting for Cooke's instructions. Extraordinarily pretty, as was every Hot Flashes member I'd met, a redhead and a honey blonde were dressed in lacy bra-and-panty sets I was almost certain hadn't come from a big box store. A third woman, a sizzling-hot brunette, wore panties and a

very

nice teddy. Cooke clearly didn't skimp on details. I made a mental note to ask her the store name.

She started off by repositioning Patty, the blonde, on the bed. She looked at a still photo in her hand, apparently taken while I'd been waiting outside, compared it to where the woman lay on her right side, her knees slightly bent. She reached down and physically shifted one of the woman's feet.

"There, like that. Don't move."

She placed and adjusted the other two as well, fitting them together into a lush, lingeried game of Tetris. Kitty, the brunette, lay spooning behind her, her hand resting on the blonde's flawless hip. The redheaded Valerie was last; Cooke placed her on her back, on the left side of the trio.

I hadn't seen the script, but when she'd finished posing them, they looked to me like three close friends who had crashed at one of their places after a night's partying. Although they kept their bodies sleepy-time relaxed, their eyes were open, following Cooke as she moved around the set, gave some final instructions to the camerawomen and finally settled into a director's chair.

"Are we all good?" she asked loudly, looking around. "Yes? OK? Right -- eyes closed, moving to happy faces, everyone! In three... in two... in one...

Action!

I was surprised. They actually had that two-piece thing somebody snapped together on the word 'Action!', complete with the video title --

Birthday Presence

.

The three held the pose with closed eyes, breathing slowly while the soundwoman adjusted a boom microphone high above them and two women with cameras began filming.

After five or ten seconds, the brunette's eyes opened. I could see her explore her situation, then a smile grew on her face. She began to slowly slide her hand over the blonde's hip, softly tracing the line of the panty waistband, again stroking her bum. It looked like she was enjoying the feel of perfect skin under her fingers. I had to admit that it was an inviting sight.

The petite blonde in the centre woke and stretched a little, became aware of the hand on her bottom. She smiled softly and reached behind her to find a firm thigh, squeezed it gently. She squirmed happily as the brunette ran her tongue along the edge of her shoulder, then rolled a bit, turning her head, smiling to see the brunette's lips an inch from hers. It was a gentle kiss, hardly burning with lust, but it was on the other hand three city blocks beyond a friendly good morning peck. Kitty shifted more to the centre to be able lean into it better.

I could see the kiss became more passionate, see cheeks shift as their tongues moved inside each other's mouths. It was well-done and I found myself reacting to it.

Valerie, the redheaded woman on the left, opened her eyes, turned sleepily to see her friends in an embrace, their hands fondling each other. Smiling, she settled her head on her pillow to watch more comfortably. Her hand slid down, found its way into her panties. The fabric was sheer enough that I could see the nail polish on the finger gently stroking her labia, circling her clitoris. She paused, pushed the panties down, tossed them aside, unhooked her bra and dropped it off the side of the bed. One hand returned to her pussy, stroking and probing, the other began to toy with her nipples, stiff now, eager as her fingers teased, rolled, pulled.

The blonde Patty must have felt her moving, for she broke away from Kitty, turned her head long enough to examine the redhead. Valerie's eyes were closed now, her mouth open in pleasure. Smiling, Patty turned back to her brunette lover, one hand pulling their heads together in another smouldering kiss.

The dark Kitty shifted her hand, slim fingers shifting from one to another of the blonde's breasts, swirling around taut, coral-colored nipples, pulling gently. The smaller girl mewed gently at the sensation.

Valerie opened her eyes at the sound, raised her head, leaned over to catch Kitty's eyes on the other side. The latter lifted her head, nodded in understanding.

The two outer girls turned inward simultaneously; their hands flew to remove the blonde's bra and panties before Kitty began kissing her again. One of the brunette's hands continued to tease one of Patty's plump breasts, slender fingers squeezing and moulding soft flesh. As she did, Valerie lowered her mouth to the girl's other breast. She swept her red hair out of the way for the camera as she circled Patty's nipple with her tongue, nipped gently with white teeth. Her hand slid slowly over the blonde's stomach, lower, found her sex, slid tenderly between slippery lips, traced its way into the girl's welcoming depths.