THE WORK WIFE

by Albert Tucher

“A hundred detectives in one room?”

Diana tried to imagine it. The picture wouldn't focus.

“Jeez, what a face,” said Tillotson. “Is it really your worst nightmare come true?”

He glanced at his companion as if inviting him to share the joke, but Detective Hinckley wasn't playing. He seemed to regard Diana's kitchen as a crime scene. Where did a prostitute get the right to live like a real person in a rented Cape Cod ?

“I'll let you know,” she said, “once I wrap my mind around it.”

“Anyway,” said Tillotson, “Saturday was the high point of the conference. We spent the whole day kicking ideas around. A detective would run down a case that was driving him crazy, and we'd brainstorm.”

“Cold cases?”

“Not necessarily. It just had to be something the detective needed help with.”

“Did you solve any?”

“We didn't run out and ask any judges for arrest warrants, but I think some of the investigators got ideas to take home.”

He gave her a meaningful look.

“There's one case I think would press your buttons.”

Ahah, she thought.

That explained the eagerness tinged with apprehension that radiated from him. He wanted to demonstrate his party trick to his new friend from Nevada .

“I have this pet hooker. I take the leash off, and she fetches the bad guy.”

She knew Tillotson hadn't really said anything so crass, but he had still managed to annoy her. Helping him was one of the things that kept her in business, but this time he expected her to perform for a stranger. That was already bad enough, but this stranger's hostility made her want to demand her usual two hundred dollars an hour from him.

“I don't know,” she said. “I watch some of those true crime shows. I hate it when I spend an hour of my life, and then I find out the case was never solved. I wish they'd warn me about that up front.”

“Well, I'm telling you now. But I think you might be able to help.”

“Uh huh.”

To her it sounded like a dead hooker. She especially didn't like unsolved prostitute murders, but a look at Tillotson's face told her she was stuck hearing about it.

“Guess I'd better make more coffee.”

She got up from the table and went to her stove. The kettle held enough water, which was still warm. She turned the flame on and put a new filter and fresh coffee into the drip pot. She took her time, but when she turned back, her guests hadn't given up and gone away. They made quite a picture. Hinckley 's squat two hundred pounds of muscle threatened to break the chair he occupied.

At thirty pounds lighter and a head taller, Tillotson looked almost fragile. He glanced at Hinckley , but the other detective was leaving it to him.

“The short version is, we have a divorced mother of three who disappears one day.”

“From where?”

“ Boulder City . That's a suburb of Las Vegas . Everybody says she's a devoted mother who would never abandon her kids, and none of the evidence says otherwise. After the most recent husband dumped her …”

“Out of how many?”

“Two. Anyway, she started working in a doctor's office and trying one side business after another--selling cosmetics, kitchen utensils, even sex toys.”

“Whatever it takes, I guess.”

“Truer than you know. The local cops are already starting to agree that the disappearance smells bad, and that's before her SUV turns up in the desert, abandoned and torched.”

“Was she in it?”

“No, and the fire took care of trace evidence. Whoever burned it knew how, or got lucky.”

“In the desert. Anything significant about the location?”

Tillotson smiled and nodded. “Good question. I'll get to that. So the cops go back to her friends for a second round of interviews, and it starts to come out.”

“By 'it' I assume you mean sex work. What kind?”

“Several. And it turns out she wasn't a virgin at it.”

“If you have to put it that way.”

“Poor choice of words, maybe, but it's true. Stripping was what broke up her first marriage.”

“Men can be so unreasonable.”

Tillotson smiled, but Hinckley still wasn't playing.

“You're not wrong,” said Tillotson. “Number one was pretty useless, and she was the one who had to make the mortgage and all the other bills. What she did for a living bothered him, but not enough to make him get up off his butt.”

“So is he a suspect?”

She looked straight at Hinckley .

“No,“ said the detective. “It couldn't be that easy. He's doing three to five in Carson City . Check fraud.”

“The strip club is where she met husband number two,” said Tillotson. “He was a regular patron.”

“Did she marry him to get out of the life? That's how it usually goes.”

“Seems like it. For a while things were going great. She didn't have to work at all, and according to her friends, she was coming into her own as a stay-at-home wife and mother. That was all she ever really wanted.”

“But?”

“But number two got restless. He dumped her for a newer model he met at the same club where she used to work.”

“Also the usual story. Once a client, always a client.”

“You've never done that, have you?”

“Get involved with a client? Never. I would expect it to crash and burn. You could ask Mary Alice about it, though.”

Tillotson grimaced, and Diana grinned. Mary Alice Mercier aka Crystal was Diana's friend and colleague, usually, and occasionally her business rival. Mary Alice kept getting involved with clients, no matter how many times it didn't work. In fact, she did it because it didn't work.

Diana glanced at Hinckley and realized that Mary Alice would be all over him like a cat. She couldn't resist men who didn't like her. Chasing them helped Mary Alice design her relationships to fail.

Mary Alice even liked bushy mustaches like Hinckley 's.

“Thanks,” said Tillotson, “but I've had my quota of crazy for the month. Anyway, our victim was going to the lawyers over the alimony, and number two was fighting her all the way. Which would make him a suspect, but his alibi is almost as good as the first guy's. He has a new life about thirty miles from where we sit. Which is more than two thousand miles from Nevada . The cops can't account for every second of his time, but he couldn't have gotten there and back.”

“So I'm guessing that selling sex toys didn't pay the bills.”

“You got that right. One of her friends finally told the detectives that she was doing 'erotic massage.' She'd let the guys get naked, and she would go topless or wear whatever costume turned them on--you know, a nurse, schoolgirl, nun.”

“Someday I'd like to meet a guy with some imagination.”

“But the friends all say the same thing. She never took the last step.”

“In other words, what I do.”

Hinckley frowned. Tillotson gave her his most serious look.

“Is that true, do you think? Or was she just saying what her friends wanted to hear?”

“It's possible. I've seen ads like that--'No happy ending.' Problem is, without knowing her, I can't say for sure. I'll tell you this, though. If it's true, it's pretty much a worst-case scenario for the cops.”

Finally she got a nod out of Hinckley .

“How so?” said Tillotson.

“What I do has risks. There's no getting around it. But at least my way usually sends the guy away satisfied. If she really got them all worked up and then said, ‘Okay, time's up,' it gives the cops as many suspects as she had clients. I mean, every woman who ever goes out on a date worries about meeting the guy who can't take no. It's like she was actually trying to meet that guy.”

“Matter of fact,” said Hinckley , “just a few weeks before she disappeared, she had a bad client. The jerk acted up, and she barely got away from him.”

“Where did she work?”

“She had one of two suites in a small office building in a strip mall.”

“Can you picture it?” said Tillotson. “Here's the tax accountant in the next office minding his own business, and a distraught topless woman comes running in, begging for help. She got herself kicked out of the office building. With no refund.”

“Which set her back even farther, financially. I assume you're looking for the guy who acted up?”

“Hadn't found him as of Saturday,” said Hinckley .

“Okay, how about her vehicle? Where did they find it?”

“That's the interesting thing,” said Tillotson. “You know anything about the legal brothels in Nevada ?”

“I've read some magazine articles. I know I could never work in one. But I guess what you're talking about is their location. They're restricted to areas outside the cities. They tend to be on dead end roads that don't lead to anything except the brothel. Am I right?”

Hinckley nodded. “Her SUV was parked on the shoulder of one of those roads.”

“Pointed which way?”

“Coming out. That suggests she was leaving, but it's not proof. The brothel people claim she didn't show up. She never registered with the county sheriff or had a medical checkup, both of which are mandatory. We leaned on the management pretty hard, and we're inclined to believe them.”

“I am too,” said Diana.

“How's that?” said Tillotson.

“Everything I hear about the brothels is pretty awful. If a girl really hustles, she can make money, but it's hard work and really competitive. The women are independent contractors, and the house charges for everything--food, clothes, linens, water, doctors, the air they breathe, for all I know. And they have to work for two or three weeks at a time, on call twenty-four-seven.”

“I have to wonder how she could have managed it.”

“That's my point. Think about it. She's just had a really bad experience that tells her what can happen to her on her own. So she starts considering the brothels, because one of the few good thing you can say about them is, they have security.”

“Okay.”

“So she's on her way to the place. She's almost there, when she realizes there's no way she can leave her kids for weeks at a time, no matter what kind of arrangements she made. So she turns around.”

Tillotson nodded. “And meets somebody she knows coming toward the brothel. And on that road, there's no other reason he could be there.”

“There's a man in the picture we haven't talked about. Assuming the doctor she worked for isn't a woman.”

“He's a family man,” said Hinckley . “Church-goer.”

“I rest my case. Nobody's more obsessed with hookers than those guys.”

Now Hinckley's face could have belonged to one of those statues on Easter Island , and she realized her mistake. She had just insulted him personally.

“We checked him out,” said Hinckley . “Of course we checked him out. You think I just started doing this yesterday? He has an alibi like everybody else in this case.”

She decided that the damage was done. She might as well keep going.

“What was it?”

“A three-week church retreat. Training for laymen in leadership positions.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yeah, it was a major commitment, and a huge honor to be chosen.”

Hnckley's look challenged her to make another comment.

“Just checking,” she said. “Was this retreat anywhere nearby?”

“A resort ranch in Montana . He was there the whole time.”

“You have a picture of her that I could see?”

Hinckley had been resting his folded hands on a tan file folder. Now he opened it as slowly as if the cover weighed a hundred pounds. She could understand his reluctance to show his evidence to a civilian.

For a moment she saw herself through his eyes. Why was she so eager to get involved in his case? Just minutes ago she hadn't wanted anything to do with it.

The answer came immediately. This case was about her and the things that could happen to her, no matter how well she usually managed to push thoughts of them away.

Tillotson looked at Hinckley , until the other detective plucked a photo from his file and slid it across the table. Diana spun it around and looked.

“Oh,” she said.

When a woman is in her prime, it shows. This woman's smile alone would break hearts, and Diana felt tears building behind her eyes. The woman's body hadn't turned up, but Diana knew that someone had extinguished the smile forever.

“Okay,” said Hinckley , “tell me this. Why would somebody like her do this kind of work?”

He leaned forward aggressively.

“As opposed to somebody like me?” she said.

His expression told her not to expect an apology.

The kettle whistled. Going through the coffee-making motions gave her time to compose her answer. She refilled all three cups and took her seat again.

“I don't think she's different from me at all. There's no mystery--too many bills and not enough options. I started because it was the best money I could make. I was eighteen. My grandmother took care of me, and the time came when I had to take care of her. She needed a nursing home, and her pension and social security didn't cover it.”

Hinckley didn't look any friendlier, but he listened.

“The thing is, the longer you do it, the more locked into it you get. By now I've given so many cover stories to so many people that I couldn't write a believable resume. And that's the story with most women in this business.”

“But not all?” said Tillotson.

“There are others. Some can't stop reliving some terrible experience, like sexual abuse. Some just hate men.”

“How does that work?” said Hinckley .

“They hate men so much that they want to do it all day long and get paid for it. They get off on giving the clients as little as they can, and taking as much of their money as they can, and making them like it. Which, for your information, isn't my style at all.”

“I know,” said Tillotson. He looked at Hinckley as he said it.

“I give value for the money.”

“Do you think about getting out of it?”

Tillotson leaned forward even farther that Hinckley . She realized that he had been waiting years for the chance to ask.

“All the time. Being good at something isn't necessarily the same thing as liking it.”

“Does anybody like it?”

“It happens. You get a few women who get off on sex with ten men a day. Or they just enjoy feeling like a whore. I've known a couple, or at least I think I have. They had resources that most of us in the business don't, but they were in it anyway I'd be surprised, though, if they're even one percent of the total.”

Both men leaned back, satisfied, but probably for different reasons.

“Anyway, we've got a whole new pack of suspects,” she said.

“What's that mean?” said Hinckley .

“We've been talking about her friends. Friends generally have husbands.”

“Okay.”

“Every woman who ever lived has had to brush off a friend's husband now and then. Look at her. She probably had to do it every day of her life. What was her name?”

“Christine.”

“There must have been a bunch of guys who spent a lot of time thinking about her..”

“So?”

“So picture one of those guys getting caught by her on the way to a whorehouse. She's the last person on earth he'd want to run into, maybe even including his own wife. He'd be so desperate that it wouldn't occur to him to wonder what she was doing on that road. Not until later, anyway. So he panicked, and you can guess the rest.”

The two detectives faced her with blank expressions on their faces. It occurred to Diana that she preferred Tillotson in the suits he used to wear. At some point detectives had gone over to Friday casual all week long.

“It's something to check out,” she said. “That's the best I can do.”

After a little strained small talk that fell mostly to Tillotson, the detectives left.

A week passed before Diana broke down. She was reaching for the phone to call Tillotson, when the doorbell rang. When she heard the door open, she knew who the visitor had to be.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mary Alice called from the foyer.

Diana had never known anyone else who said, “Yoo-hoo,” and meant it.

Mary Alice took the chair that Hinckley had used. Diana knew what was coming. Mary Alice started a detailed account of her latest breakup.

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” Diana said at the appropriate intervals.

Normally she would have listened more actively, but today she had to stop herself from looking at the phone. She wanted to make that call.

Halfway through her story Mary Alice stopped and looked at her watch.

“Drat. I have a new client. Don't want to be late for the first date.”

Unlike Diana, Mary Alice often kept men waiting. Once she had hooked them on her black hair, perfect dark complexion, and her drama, the clients stopped minding.

“This guy wants to be spanked. He's in luck. Today I'm in the mood to let him have it.”

As soon as Mary Alice had made her exit, Diana snatched the phone from the wall and punched the numbers into it. Tillotson picked up.

“You heard anything from Hinckley ?”

“The husband thing didn't pan out.”

She waited for more, but nothing came. Her anger flared.

“Don't you pull that manly silence crap on me.”

He did anyway.

“Where do you get off, thinking I let you down? I'm here minding my own business, and you show up expecting me to make you look good in front of some cop who thinks I belong in jail. Which didn't stop him from drinking my coffee, by the way. How is it my job to do your job?”

Even over the phone she could feel his temper about to take off, but nothing came. After a moment, he exhaled.

“Shit. You're right. That wasn't fair of me at all. I'll try not to do it again.”

Somehow the “try” mollified her more than an ironclad promise would have done. She found it more believable.

“It's okay,” she said. “I'm sorry I bit your head off. That was overreacting.”

For a while they made little make-up noises at each other. After they hung up, Diana looked at the phone and laughed. Sometimes she felt like his wife, or a least his work wife.

She felt a jolt like the caffeine from a gallon of coffee hitting all at once. She knew what had happened to Christine, and what she had to do. It took a call to Information and several transfers, but within five minutes the voice she wanted spoke into her ear.

“ Hinckley .”

She identified herself.

“Didn't Tillotson tell you? The husbands are all accounted for.”

His tone couldn't have been less welcoming, but she ignored it.

“Did you look at the women in the brothel?”

“Sure. Nothing jumped out at us.”

If she was right, one name would have done more than jump. It would have smacked him in the face. She almost gave up right there, but then she realized that the information made her case stronger.

“Remember the one percent?”

“The women who like the job.”

“Right. Okay, the doctor who went off on retreat--did his wife go?”

“No. Why?”

But he must have had a glimmer, because he was really listening now.

“The one percent can be anybody, remember? You understand what I mean by anybody?”

“Spell it out.”

“I told you I've read stuff about the brothels. Every article remarks on the married women in the business. Okay, a lot of times the husband is more like a pimp, but sometimes he's not. Sometimes he knows what she does and puts up with it. Sometimes he even likes it. It turns him on, knowing that guys pay tremendous money for his wife. And sometimes he doesn't know, and if he doesn't, she generally doesn't want him to find out.”

“And we're thinking Christine saw someone she knew on the way to the brothel.”

“The women generally have to stay there for weeks at a time. Who was away long enough for his wife to work like that?”

“The doctor.”

“I'll bet she'd been planning this for a long time. Then the big day comes, and everything goes to hell.”

“She didn't register with the sheriff, either.”

“Because she never got where she was going. If I were you, I would go back to the brothel. Ask them if anybody else who was supposed to start that day didn't show up.”

Hinckley blew air out.

“I hate this.”

“I know, but you should be used to that. Tillotson is.”

“You seem to know him pretty well.”

“It's all on the up-and-up. I'm his work wife. You know the term?”

“Maybe I need one.”

Yoo-hoo, Diana thought.

“It's a shame you're not local, because I could fix you up.”