Read Online Misery Bay: A Mystery by Chris Angus - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Angus
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if you cross them … well … there’s never a second time.”
Tuttle blew a cloud of smoke into the air, a disgusted look on his face. “Let me know when you find out anything … if you ever do.” He turned and disappeared into his office, slamming the door in Garrett’s face.
Garrett stood, choking on the smoke, and wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn’t taken his retirement when he had the chance.
He went over to an empty desk and picked up a Halifax phone book, turning to the yellow pages. There were fourteen pages of escort services. A few had full-page ads with color pictures and graphics. Others consisted of little more than a single line with name and phone number. These were the freelancers, housewives looking to turn a trick or two a week for rent money. He found Sweet Angels in the mid-range, a small box ad with a line drawing of a man and woman kissing and the words: Unique, Personalized Service. We accommodate ANY interest.
He jotted down the number and then placed a call to the phone company. In two minutes, he had the address. It was on lower Barrington Street, along the waterfront.
Halifax had changed from the sleepy, provincial city of the 1950s to the busy, cosmopolitan tourist juggernaut of today. It boasted one of the busiest and most fascinating waterfronts anywhere, full of trendy restaurants and nightclubs, street musicians, museums, shops, and wharves lined with tall ships, best known of which was the famous Bluenose II, which sailed the seas but spent much of its dock time in Halifax. The city reminded him of San Francisco, with its steep hills and throbbing waterfront. He could sit on the lawns of the Citadel, the famed eighteenth-century fort that dominated the landscape, and watch sailboats float ethereally between the walls of tall buildings.
The address turned out to be a nondescript apartment building. There was no sign or any other evidence of the business. Escort services required little but a phone drop to carry out their lucrative concern. He climbed up the stoop and pressed a bell that was marked, simply, A PT 5 . At once, a woman’s voice came over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Uh, I heard I could get a girl here,” he said. Nothing ventured.
There was silence for a moment. Then, “You heard wrong.” The intercom went dead.
He pushed the bell again, holding it down.
“Who the hell is it?” said the voice again.
“Police,” he said. “Open the door.”
The buzzer went off immediately.
Inside, there was an elevator with an O UT OF O RDER sign on it. He swore. Too many stairs caused his foot to ache. He plodded slowly up the five flights and rapped on the door.
A woman he identified at once as Big Margaret answered and stood, hands on bountiful hips, looking him up and down. Lila hadn’t exaggerated. She did indeed have one of the biggest butts he’d ever seen. He stared past her into the apartment. In contrast to the decrepit building, it was elegantly furnished.
“Don’t look like no cop,” said Big Margaret. “Whataya want?”
“I’m looking for Hank,” he said.
“What’s that loser done now?”
“He here?”
“Naa. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Garrett managed to slide past her into the apartment.
“Hey, I didn’t invite you.”
“How’s business?” he asked.
“What are you talking about? I live here.”
“Your phone number is listed for Sweet Angels Escort Service.”
“We run a legitimate business. It’s completely legal. We provide escort company for people who need a date to attend some function or somethin’. ”
“Right.” He looked around the room and found the telephone on a coffee table in front of a couch facing a huge flat screen TV. Also on the table was a pile of address books. He went over and began to leaf through them.
“You can’t do that without a warrant,” Big Margaret said indignantly.
“I’m investigating the deaths of several young girls—you may have heard about it on the
Tuttle blew a cloud of smoke into the air, a disgusted look on his face. “Let me know when you find out anything … if you ever do.” He turned and disappeared into his office, slamming the door in Garrett’s face.
Garrett stood, choking on the smoke, and wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn’t taken his retirement when he had the chance.
He went over to an empty desk and picked up a Halifax phone book, turning to the yellow pages. There were fourteen pages of escort services. A few had full-page ads with color pictures and graphics. Others consisted of little more than a single line with name and phone number. These were the freelancers, housewives looking to turn a trick or two a week for rent money. He found Sweet Angels in the mid-range, a small box ad with a line drawing of a man and woman kissing and the words: Unique, Personalized Service. We accommodate ANY interest.
He jotted down the number and then placed a call to the phone company. In two minutes, he had the address. It was on lower Barrington Street, along the waterfront.
Halifax had changed from the sleepy, provincial city of the 1950s to the busy, cosmopolitan tourist juggernaut of today. It boasted one of the busiest and most fascinating waterfronts anywhere, full of trendy restaurants and nightclubs, street musicians, museums, shops, and wharves lined with tall ships, best known of which was the famous Bluenose II, which sailed the seas but spent much of its dock time in Halifax. The city reminded him of San Francisco, with its steep hills and throbbing waterfront. He could sit on the lawns of the Citadel, the famed eighteenth-century fort that dominated the landscape, and watch sailboats float ethereally between the walls of tall buildings.
The address turned out to be a nondescript apartment building. There was no sign or any other evidence of the business. Escort services required little but a phone drop to carry out their lucrative concern. He climbed up the stoop and pressed a bell that was marked, simply, A PT 5 . At once, a woman’s voice came over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Uh, I heard I could get a girl here,” he said. Nothing ventured.
There was silence for a moment. Then, “You heard wrong.” The intercom went dead.
He pushed the bell again, holding it down.
“Who the hell is it?” said the voice again.
“Police,” he said. “Open the door.”
The buzzer went off immediately.
Inside, there was an elevator with an O UT OF O RDER sign on it. He swore. Too many stairs caused his foot to ache. He plodded slowly up the five flights and rapped on the door.
A woman he identified at once as Big Margaret answered and stood, hands on bountiful hips, looking him up and down. Lila hadn’t exaggerated. She did indeed have one of the biggest butts he’d ever seen. He stared past her into the apartment. In contrast to the decrepit building, it was elegantly furnished.
“Don’t look like no cop,” said Big Margaret. “Whataya want?”
“I’m looking for Hank,” he said.
“What’s that loser done now?”
“He here?”
“Naa. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Garrett managed to slide past her into the apartment.
“Hey, I didn’t invite you.”
“How’s business?” he asked.
“What are you talking about? I live here.”
“Your phone number is listed for Sweet Angels Escort Service.”
“We run a legitimate business. It’s completely legal. We provide escort company for people who need a date to attend some function or somethin’. ”
“Right.” He looked around the room and found the telephone on a coffee table in front of a couch facing a huge flat screen TV. Also on the table was a pile of address books. He went over and began to leaf through them.
“You can’t do that without a warrant,” Big Margaret said indignantly.
“I’m investigating the deaths of several young girls—you may have heard about it on the
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