Dead Fall Read Free

“extras.” Some cops had laughingly referred to Sheridan’s al fresco scheme of employing the older girls as her way of ensuring that she couldn’t be prosecuted for age discrimination in the workplace.
    Even when I was with the British Armed Forces, and later with Arrowsake, I had never slept with a prostitute. The practice just didn’t appeal to me. But neither was I such a prude that I frowned on the oldest profession. To some women it was a lifestyle choice, and who was I to cast aspersions? It was only when women—or God forbid, children—were coerced, forced, and trapped into prostitution that I took umbrage. Not with the women themselves, but with their pimps and handlers. But I had nothing against Sheridan. She ran a clean shop, and also looked after her staff well, and only after they came to her seeking gainful employment. Higher up the ladder, though, that’s where the issue lay.
    Sheridan Brown was allowed to operate so long as the majority of her profits went to Marvin Whalen, who owned Sheridan’s and a number of other massage parlors throughout Tampa. Marvin “Moby Dick” Whalen was of course only fronting the chain of parlors on behalf of his boss man, Mick O’Neill. It was the likes of Whalen and O’Neill I couldn’t tolerate.
    When I arrived at Sheridan’s parlor, the cops had not yet paid a visit. Sooner or later they’d question Sheridan about Candice Berry, and it would be a waste of all their time and energy. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Sheridan could neither blab about her bosses, or about what Candice had been up to before she was grabbed off the street corner. Her position was untenable. But I hoped that she’d be more truthful with me. Some of the girls working the streets jokingly referred to me as “Our White Knight” because I’d come to their rescue on more than one occasion, and had even taken out a deviant scumbag preying on the younger girls last year. When I say taken out, I mean the evil game that he was playing. Carl Riley would pick up girls, then beat and rape them, all under the threat of a knife. One night I used the knife on him. Without major reconstructive surgery there was no fear he’d entice a girl into his car again, and if and when he did, he wouldn’t have the tools necessary to rape them. I’d left his family jewels in a jar alongside his rape kit of duct tape, rope, and knife, when I dumped him outside an ER.
    I parked my Audi A6 opposite Sheridan’s Parlor and fed the parking meter. Before crossing the busy street I adjusted my SIG Sauer P228 in the small of my back, allowing my shirt to hang over it. I didn’t expect trouble from Sheridan, but who knew if Whalen or one of his underlings were on hand to ensure she said all the right things when the cops did show up? There was no hint from the opaque shop front that anything was amiss, or that Sheridan had even heard the news concerning Candice yet, but she’d know all right.
    The Floridian sun was beating down mercilessly, but the streets were packed with tourists, and as I approached the parlor I received more than one knowing look from passersby. I ignored them, and entered the shop, the little brass bell above the door tinkling. The front of the house looked like any other salon or parlor I’d ever graced, and there was no hint of what went on behind the door to the right of the reception counter. I ignored the posters on the walls proclaiming the treatments—everything from Shiatsu, to Swedish massage, to something applied by the way of heated stones—and asked the receptionist if Sheridan was in.
    The woman behind the counter was Seminole, with raven hair, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. She was a stunner. She was also suspicious. Offering her my most open face, I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not a cop.”
    â€œIsn’t that exactly what an undercover cop would say?” she