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“That’s my take.”
“So he’ll hunt other LCs, in that same area.”
“That would be the pattern.” Eve paused. “And what he wants us to think.”
Her next stop was Jacie’s counselor, who worked out of a three-office suite on the lower fringes of the East Village. On her large, overburdened desk was a bowl of colorful hard candies. She sat behind them in a gray suit that gave her a matronly air.
Eve judged her to be on the shadowy side of fifty, with a kind face and, by contrast, a pair of shrewd hazel eyes.
“Tressa Palank.” She rose to offer Eve a firm handshake before gesturing to a chair. “I assume this concerns one of my clients. I’ve got ten minutes before my next session. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me about Jacie Wooton.”
“Jacie?” Tressa’s eyebrows lifted, a slight smile touched her lips, but there was a look in her eyes, a steady look of dread. “I can’t believe she’d give you any trouble. She’s on a straight path, determined to earn back her A-Grade license.”
“Jacie Wooton was murdered early this morning.”
Tressa closed her eyes, did nothing but breathe in and out for several seconds. “I knew it had to be one of mine.” She opened her eyes again, and they remained direct. “As soon as I heard the bulletin about the murder in Chinatown, I knew. Just a feeling in the gut, if you understand me. Jacie.” She folded her hands on the desk, stared down at them. “What happened?”
“I’m not free to give you the details as yet. I can only tell you she was stabbed.”
“Mutilated. The bulletin said a female licensed companion had been mutilated in a Chinatown alley early this morning.”
One of the uniforms, Eve thought, and there would be hell to pay for the leak when she found the source. “I can’t tell you any more at this time. My investigation is in its earliest stages.”
“I know the routine. I was on the job for five years.”
“You were a cop?”
“Five years, sex crimes primarily. I switched to counseling. I didn’t like the streets, or what I saw on them. Here, I can do something to help without facing that day after day. This isn’t a picnic, by any means, but it’s what I do best. I’ll tell you what I can; I hope it helps.”
“She spoke to you recently, about her upgrade.”
“Denied. She has—had—another year’s probation. It’s mandatory after her arrests and addiction. Her rehab went well, though I suspect she’d found a substitute for the Push she was hooked on.”
“Vodka. Two bottles in her flop.”
“Well. It’s legal, but it violates her parole requirements for upgrade. Not that it matters now.”
Tressa rubbed her hands over her eyes and simply sighed. “Not that it matters,” she repeated. “She couldn’t think of anything but getting back uptown. Hated working the streets, but at the same time never considered, not seriously, any alternative profession.”
“Did she have any regulars you know of?”
“No. She once had quite an extensive client list, exclusive men and women. She was licensed for both. But, to my knowledge, no one followed her downtown. I believe s
he would’ve told me, as it would’ve boosted her ego.”
“Her supplier?”
“She wouldn’t give a name, not even to me. But she swore there had been no contact since her release. I believed her.”
“In your opinion, did she hold back the name because she was afraid?”
“In mine, she considered it a matter of ethics. She’d been an LC nearly half her life. A good LC is discreet and considers her clients’ privacy sacred, much as a doctor or a priest. She considered this along the same lines. I suspect her supplier was also a client, but that’s just a hunch.”
“She gave no indication to you during your last sessions that she was concerned, worried, afraid of anything or anyone?”
“No. Just impatient to get her old life back.”
