Cord's apartment presented itself as a typical bachelor's abode: one room with a sofa bed in the middle, across from it a black-and-white TV that isn't too modern, a small bookcase near the window, a wardrobe, a chair for everyday clothes; a tiny kitchen (he didn't need more); in the entryway—a coat rack, a table with a telephone on it, and a bag for books. Anyone who entered the apartment immediately drew parallels between it and its owner: minimum comfort and maximum practicality.
Returning home at about six in the evening and having bought sausages with sour cream for dinner, Cord sprawled on the sofa and opened a book to a page that he had bookmarked earlier. It was a pretty good adventure novel about the meeting of a trade schooner and a ghost ship. Cord liked the story until he got to the end. As it turned out, there had never been a ghost ship. The sailors had simply eaten spoiled stew and had begun hallucinating en masse. What nonsense! Why are modern writers so fond of reducing everything to crappy realism and not leaving anything as delightful fiction?!
Having closed the book, he determined its fate in a second: into the bag. Lazily shuffling to the hallway, he tossed it on top of the other books. Some people would certainly be indignant if they saw what he had done: how dare he handle a repository of knowledge with such carelessness! To which Cord would have grunted skeptically. Paper is paper. No new information would appear there anyway, and the information that was already there was not even worthy of taking up space on his bookcase.
The long-awaited phone call interrupted his thoughts about what to do next.
"Hello. Yes, Cord... Yes, I see... The Blue Eyes? The exact address...? Yes, now. Why put it off...? Goodbye."
Cord hung up and grinned.
He had guessed right: the murdered woman was a prostitute, but not an ordinary one. She was from the Blue Eyes—one of the most expensive elite brothels in the city. As Cord had heard, it had its own peculiarities: the first, absolutely all the prostitutes were blue-eyed; the second, they all worked wonders in bed. Cord hadn't checked that out for himself. As a student, that brothel was too expensive for him, and in the last five years he had settled down.
To go there, Cord dressed a little more decently than usual. He replaced his T-shirt with a clean white shirt and a jacket. Still, the institution was not an easy one, one needed to fit in. He put a voice recorder with two spare batteries into his jacket pocket and, just in case, a pen and a notepad.
***
A taxi drove Cord directly to the brothel entrance, which comprised a massive reddish door with a peephole in the middle. Cord pressed the doorbell to the right.
The door was opened by a man in a black suit. Cord showed him his ID.
"Good evening. You should have been warned about my arrival."
The security guard nodded and gestured him to follow.
The brothel corridors were nothing special. Soft, warm lighting, walls lined with red velvet, erotic paintings hanging on them—in general, like other such locations, the kind of gold standard. The main magic that made this brothel elite took place behind closed doors. It had thematic rooms—maybe you wanted a piece of the jungle with natural vines, an airliner cabin, or a lunar landscape? It was all here, along with priestesses of love capable of satisfying the most discerning clients, expensive alcohol, and delicious food from a team of highly professional chefs. The Blue Eyes was among the top twenty best brothels in the country, and reservations were made long in advance.
But they weren't working today. Cord could guess why.
The security guard escorted him to the desired room and silently opened the door. Before Cord's eyes, there was a small amphitheater with five rows of chairs on either side of the aisle and a semicircular stage in front. The establishment team sat in the seats, and on the scene a black-haired, middle-aged woman played the harp. The melody was so heartfelt that Cord both entered and froze, listening. Only when the music died down and the harpist looked up at him did he return to reality.
"Dear ones, we have a guest," she announced in a low voice.
"Hello," said Cord. "I'm Cord, an investigator. I would like to—"
"We know." The harpist came down from the stage and walked toward him. "You wanted to talk to us about Piala."
"That's right."
"Do you need our girls?"
"Yes, the ones who worked last night."
"Good." The woman beckoned four girls. They got up from their chairs and immediately went to her. "You go on without us," she commanded to the others. "Come on." She turned to Cord and moved away. The girls followed.
Cord looked at the woman. Seemingly a little over fifty, black curly hair hanging down to a very voluminous chest, blue eyes, and a probing gaze. She wore a black dress with a tight fit, which emphasized both the advantages and disadvantages of a curvy figure, but her posture and gait exuded confidence, a complicated individual.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and turned right down the corridor. At one door, the woman stopped.
"Is it better if the girls wait here or come with us?"
"I still want to talk with everyone but prefer to do it with each person individually."
The woman nodded and entered the room.
"This is my office," she nodded at a massive wooden table on which some papers lay. "You can interrogate the girls here. We are still not working today."
"When did you learn about the death of your girl? Has it been long?"
"Today at about seven in the evening, when they called me. I had just woken up—and here's the news!"
"Have you gone to identify the body?"
The woman nodded.
"And immediately canceled all reservations for today. Some clients were outraged, but many were understanding." The woman sighed and held out her hand to Cord. "Yes, I didn't introduce myself. Slim. But everyone calls me Madam. They think my name doesn't suit me." She smiled strangely.
Cord shook her soft hand.
"Cord. Are you in charge here?"
"Founder, owner, director, and madam."
Cord chuckled.
"I wanted to call you multi-faceted but decided that it was not worth it."
Madam smiled.
"No one has ever died from jokes. It seems to me that is how our conversation would be more lively."
"Okay."
"I was told she died of a head injury."
"Right. The back of her head was bashed in."
Madam nodded sadly.
Cord pulled the voice recorder and a cassette from his pockets.
"Our conversation will be recorded."
"Good."
Cord pressed the button. There was a click, and the recording began.
"The twelfth of July, one thousand nine hundred and ninety-three. Case number twenty-four zero seven ninety-three. Murder of a prostitute in the park on the night from the eleventh to the twelfth of July." It would be necessary to give the case a more laconic name. "Questioning of the witness Madam conducted by practical investigator Cord. The time of the beginning of the interrogation is twenty-two hours and seventeen minutes."
Cord hated this bureaucratic chatter, but they couldn't live without it.
"So, the name of the victim?" finally, he could start.
"Piala," Madam repeated calmly.
"Age?"
"Nineteen."
"If I am not mistaken, prostitutes in the eighteen to twenty category are the most expensive and popular," Cord stated.
"Not necessarily," Madam said. "Many prefer older and more experienced women."
"When did you see her last alive?"
"Last night."
"Exact time?"
"Hmm... The guests came at about one, but we'll check. We have it written down in the journal. The girls and I met them, then I took them to the room, and before the conflict, I did not see the girls."
"Conflict?"
"Yes, Sky told me that there was a conflict with one of Piala's guests, and she ran out of the room. Security later reported that she had left the brothel and went outside through the guest entrance."
"They let her go?"
"Nobody had enough time to figure out what exactly had happened," Madam shrugged. "According to the security guards, she appeared calm and like she just wanted to breathe some fresh air. That is not prohibited."
I need to talk to security. It looked like I wouldn't get any sleep tonight.
"So, let's get back to the guests for now," Cord continued. "Was this an unusual order?"
"No, nothing like that. Five men, five girls."
"So it was an orgy?"
"Combined."
"Explain."
"First, everyone gathered in the Thermae, then, whoever wanted to, went to the rooms."
"In the Thermae?"
"That is the name of our largest room. A huge bathhouse with a pool in the middle, six doors lead away from it to smaller rooms."
"And Piala went into one of them?"
"According to the girls."
"I hope you touched nothing there."
"After Piala, no one went in there, and we did not have time to clean up."
"Why?"
"Piala didn't come back yesterday. We immediately suspected the worst."
"Why didn't you file a missing person's report?"
"Because you have to wait twenty-four hours—"
"That's a myth. You can do so immediately. But let's continue. Can you describe the clients?"
Madam shook her head.
"I have a terrible memory for faces."
"Then let's say. How much did they pay?"
"Trade secret."
"Actually, it is not. You said the order was not unusual. Therefore, it was according to the price list."
Madam chuckled.
"Two hundred thousand."
For that amount, one could buy two median-class cars or a one-bedroom apartment in a residential area.
"I'll ask a stupid question: do you have their names or any images?"
Madam laughed.
"Of course not. Everything is anonymous with us. Cash payment. Nobody wants to pay in a brothel with cards or checks."
"The interrogation of the witness Madam is over."
Cord turned off the recording.
"Okay, now I need to talk to those who were there."
***
Four girls entered the office. Everything was like a selection of young beauties. When they were walking along the corridor, Cord had not noticed that because he had been busy with Madam, but now he fell in love.
"So, uh-uh..." Cord was a little confused by their appearance: all the girls were wearing extremely damn exciting robes with lace. "Madam said that last night Piala and one guest had a conflict."
The girls looked at each other. Except for one—she nodded.
"Which of you can tell me about this in more detail?"
"I can."
A slender girl with extremely light, almost white skin and a thick pearl blond braid to the waist nodded again.
"Okay, then I'll start with you. The rest of you are free for now. You too, Madam."
The woman gave the girls a sign and led them out of the room behind her. Mother duck and a brood of ducklings.
"Please, sit down."
The girl obediently sat down on a leather sofa by the window.
"Our conversation will be recorded." Cord turned on the recorder again and went through the necessities. "Your name?"
"Sky. Because of my eyes," explained the girl.
Cord had already noticed that her irises were sky blue.
"Age?"
"Nineteen."
"Did you know Piala well?"
"I worked with her, yes, but we were not friends." The girl had a very soft timbre of voice.
"Tell me more about last night. Everything you remember."
Sky became thoughtful.
"We had a big order, an expensive one. These are usually done by very wealthy people, like politicians or artists. But I didn't know these guys."
"Did they look ordinary?"
"Mmm... Yes. Except that two of them were sort of... Uh-uh... They looked like rich people."
"Can you describe them?"
"All of them or just those two?"
"Everyone."
"Uh-uh... Well, my client was not very tall; he was sitting wearing a cap all the time. Perhaps he was balding. Not very handsome, but not ugly either. His age was about forty. And the rest... Uh-uh... you probably better ask the other girls. We don't really remember our clients, maybe only our regular ones."
"So these were not permanent clients?"
"No... Oh wait, I remember the second one too."
"Second?"
"Piala's. Because I paid attention to him. He was... How can I say this? Gorgeous, like an ancient god." The girl smiled a little embarrassedly. "You know... Athletic, tall, muscular, with a face like a... model. And he had a body like the models of men's underwear. And the hair... his hair was not very long and slicked back and also was blond. And he was not too old, about thirty-something in appearance."
Cord did not interrupt the girl. Her information looked very useful.
"He did not give his name?"
"Mmm... Ahm... No... Although, wait, yes, it seems to have happened once. Fa... or Fam... Something like that. Abbreviated, I think."
Fam... No way.
"Tell me about the conflict."
"The conflict," thought Sky, "well... I'm not sure exactly what happened. That is... He and Piala went to the room, and fifteen minutes later Piala ran out as if she had been scalded with hot liquid and flew past us. Oh, I forgot to say that I was with my client at the pool, and there was no one else in the Thermae."
"The rest went to other rooms?"
"Well, yes. So, Piala ran out, and literally a few seconds later, the blond also ran out. Naked and drunk. He asked his friend where Piala had run to, then grabbed his things and followed her."
"Was Piala nude too?"
"In a leather skirt."
"Shouldn't you follow the theme of the room?"
"If the client specifies. If not, it is unnecessary. Piala usually works in a leather miniskirt, stockings, red high-heeled shoes, and some kind of tight top or bra. She's a redhead, you know? Pretending to be a succubus," giggled Sky, but then stopped short. "I mean she pretended to be."
The girl described the victim very accurately. Except that Piala wasn't wearing shoes. Why?
"She ran out in her shoes?"
"Yes, yes! What did I say?"
"That she was wearing a leather skirt."
"I mean, no top."
"We found her with a top."
"Oh, maybe she grabbed her top and was holding it in her hands. A lilac color, right?"
"Right. You said the blond ran after her right away."
"He got dressed first."
"Can you describe his clothes?"
"Beige shorts, a shirt with parrots on it, and brand new white sneakers."
"He could only get out through the guest entrance?"
"Of course."
"According to security, Piala also went out through it. How could it be that they missed each other?"
"I don't know. I was with a client. But the blond didn't come back."
"Hmm... It might be pretty simple," Cord muttered thoughtfully. "The interrogation of the witness Sky is complete."
"Tell me, was I helpful to you?"
"Very much! Perhaps, thanks to your information, we will soon catch the criminal," Cord smiled.
"Oh! Great!"
An unexpected thought occurred to Cord.
"And one more thing. You girls, who were here, will be summoned for identification in the morning. If you recognize the blond that you just talked about, do not point to him categorically, but do not deny it either. Speak evasively, say 'maybe', 'I'm not sure' and all that. Later I will meet you, and you will tell me the truth."
"And... Why such complications?"
"Because if this is who I think it is, you could be in danger. And so could anyone who recognizes him. I'll talk to the other girls."
"Floozies," Sky smiled. "We call each other that. Because the word is cute and funny..."
"Well, yeah, I guess... yeah. I'll warn them too."
"And Madam, don't forget."
"Of course."
***
Cord did not feel tired, although he left the brothel at almost four in the morning. He talked with the rest of the "floozies", but they reported nothing as useful as Sky. After a visit to the Thermae and all adjacent rooms, he peeked into the locker room (one girl noticed that Piala's leather jacket had gone missing, meaning she had left with it). He warned Madam that in the morning the forensic team would arrive and scrutinize everything.
Then he spoke with security and set the time of arrival of the guests according to the logbook—00:17. Madam had been mistaken by about an hour, but Cord saw nothing criminal in this. He found something interesting in the journal: security did not note the time of Piala's departure but wrote about the guest—2:12. Forensics had placed Piala's time of death at between two and three o'clock in the morning, so the guest could well be her killer.
Finally, Cord warned Madam about the procedure for identifying the culprit. He explained why he had asked her to do as he asked and not as she should. Madam seemed to have found his argument convincing. In parting, she said to him:
"Please find the killer."
And Sky smiled and waved at him.
***
Public transportation had already stopped for the night. It would have been possible to catch a taxi, but Cord did not want to do that just yet. He needed to comprehend the information that he had just received.
So, Piala had a falling out with a handsome blond man in his thirties. Sky had said his name is Fam.
Could I be so lucky?
Familiar had obviously been nervous this morning. About what? He had said he went to see whores. Did he foolishly get into some trouble? He is also blond, muscular, and handsome. And he doesn't need money: it's not even his father's capital; he has his own business—a private club.
And he also has a secret. Familiar is neurotic.
Something that night might have made him go nuts, might have made him run after the poor girl and might have motivated him to commit murder.
Something. Or someone. Piala herself? Maybe.
Today promises to be very interesting.