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Gun up, I pushed the door inward, saw an older woman, naked, bound to a chair and gagged. There was some kind of wide sash or gold cord biting into her neck. Standing up behind her on the bed, straining to tighten the cord, was a very pale, very pretty bald woman wearing makeup and an outfit that would have made a trucker blush.
I panicked and was stepping backward when the naked older woman’s bulging eyes caught mine and she nodded wildly.
“Let go!” I yelled, moving deeper into the room, aiming right at the bald woman. “Let go or I will shoot you!”
Chapter
72
The bald woman started, stepped back, let go of the rope, and stared at me and the gun before raising her trembling hands and saying hoarsely, “What is this?”
I grabbed a robe off a chair, tossed it over the older woman I assumed was Pauline Striker, and came around behind her, still aiming at the bald woman.
“Get down on your knees, Coco, then facedown on the bed, hands behind your head,” I said.
She seemed even more frightened now that she realized I knew her name, and she started to lower herself to her knees while I worked the gag off Mrs. Striker. She spit it out, choked, and cried, “He—”
“Are you the police?” Coco asked from one knee.
“The next best thing,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “Just need to know one thing, Mrs. Striker. Was that consensual? Or was your life in danger?”
Before the older woman could speak, Coco said in a deep male voice that startled me, “Of course it was consensual. Pauline, tell him. You can’t have our interlude coming out in the Palm Beach Post. Not with Edwin’s new thing just around the corner. It would be everywhere.”
I gaped for a second, realizing that Coco had to be Jeffrey Mize. But even though the person in front of me was bald, my brain was having trouble with the idea that she was a he. If not for the lack of hair, Mize could have been an aging supermodel.
“Mrs. Striker,” I said, feeling unsure now. “Please answer my question.”
The older woman seemed less upset than before, and she looked at me, then over at Mize, who was on all fours, gazing at her.
“Tell him, Pauline,” Mize said. “Whoever he is.”
Mrs. Striker swiveled her head to look at me, choked out, “Who are you?”
“A Good Samaritan,” I said. “I’m here to help and to contact the police if you need them.”
“Wait,” Mize said, pushing up into a kneeling position. “You’re not a cop?”
“How did you get in here?” Mrs. Striker asked, sounding angry.
“That’s not important; what’s important is whether this was consensual or not,” I said, feeling the situation slipping away from me.
“It was consensual,” she said emphatically. “But I most certainly did not consent to having you in my house holding me and my guest at gunpoint. Who are you and what are you after?”
“Who I am does
n’t matter,” I said, trying to figure out a way to exit gracefully and anonymously. “What matters is that Mr. Mize has been linked to the murders of three Palm Beach socialites.”
“That’s not true,” Mize snapped.
“He painted their portraits. Lisa Martin. Ruth Abrams. Maggie Crawford. Is there a portrait of you here in the house, Pauline? Were you about to become number four?”
Mrs. Striker looked bewildered for a moment and then said, “I don’t know anything about that.”
“See?” Mize said, smiling and straightening.
It was time to either cut and run or do something audacious. I chose audacious.
“Then I apologize and I’ll be going,” I said, lowering the gun. “But I’d rather see you free of your bonds before I go.”
