“No, he said something about remembering Shadow, whatever the hell that is.”
The name clicked. Ben was Shadow, a big, black wolf who managed Nonpareil, a stripper business that catered—as both strippers and studs—to human and nonhuman parties alike. I’d met him briefly while investigating a case a few months ago, and while we’d shared an attraction, I’d been with Kellen at the time and had promised to remain faithful to him.
Fat lot of good it had done me, too.
I blew out a breath, pushed away the lingering remnants of heartache, and said, “Did he leave a phone number?”
“He did. But this is the last time I’m relaying personal messages.”
“It’s not personal. It’s business.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, because I actually had no idea what Ben wanted. I doubted if it would be personal, though. Not after all this time.
She grunted. “Not believing that for an instant, wolf girl.” She rattled off a phone number. “He also said you can contact him via the office if there’s no answer on his cell.”
“You’re such a sweetie, Sal.”
“You know where you can shove being a sweetie,” she said and hung up.
I chuckled softly. Jack had told me numerous times to stop being such a bitch around Sal, but baiting that woman was just too much fun to let it go.
I dialed the number she’d given me. It rang several times, then a deep voice said, “Ben Wilson speaking.”
“Ben, it’s Riley Jenson, returning your call.”
“Thank you for calling back.” There was more than a touch of relief in his rich tones. “I know you don’t know me or anything, but I’m in need of some help, and you’re the only guardian I know.”
Well, at least I’d been right before. It was business. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, then wanted to smack myself for even thinking the latter.
“What sort of help?” I said, perhaps a touch more sharply than I’d intended.
He hesitated. “One of our strippers has just been murdered.”
“Then call the police.”
“I have. They’re treating it as low priority.”
“Why?”
“Because Denny was a known participant in the BDSM scene, and his death looks like sex-play gone wrong.”
“And if he was into that scene, they might just be right.”
“Except for the fact that Denny only dabbled in BDSM. What really got his rocks off was asphyxiophilia.”
I frowned. “Which is?”
“Erotic asphyxiation. Only he wasn’t found hanging from his neck, he was found hanging by his wrists, with his back and stomach stripped.”
“He got off by trying to kill himself?” That didn’t sound like very much fun to me. There again, neither did having my back and stomach beaten so badly that the flesh peeled away.
“He didn’t do autoerotic asphyxiation. He was always—always—with a partner.”
Something Ben couldn’t actually be sure of, unless he was there each and every time. And as frank and as open as wolves were about sex, most of us didn’t go blathering to all and sundry about each and every sexual exploit. “Did police find any indication of a partner in the apartment?”
“No, although there had to be one given the state of his body.”
“So what do you want me to do? Try and find the partner?”
“I want the truth of what happened. Finding the partner would be a good start, yes.”
“I’ll need to get in his apartment.” Smell the smells, see if his soul was hanging about for a chat. Though not all souls did, as evidenced by Gerard.
“I have a key. I can let you in.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a key to all your employees’ apartments?”
“No, just those who are into the more dangerous stuff.”
“You mean there’re sexual fetishes more dangerous than trying to strangle yourself?”
“Maybe not as dangerous, but certainly walking the edge, yes.”
I walked across to the apartment building’s main doors and pressed the buzzer for apartment 1B. While I waited for Alana to answer, I asked, “How long ago did he actually die?”
“Yesterday. He didn’t turn up for work today, so I called in on the way home. That’s when I found him.”
So at least twenty-four hours had passed, if not more. I wrinkled my nose. The chances of the dead man’s soul hanging about were slim. Even if he was there, the odds that I’d actually understand him were practically nil. To date, it seemed that the fresher the kill, the stronger I could see or hear the soul—and vice versa.
“The police took your statement, I presume.” I pressed the buzzer again, then stepped back and looked up. No one answered, and there didn’t seem to be any movement or sound evident from either of the first-floor apartments.
“Yes, they did. You can double-check it if you think I’ve been lying about anything.”
I smiled. “Oh, I will, but not because I think you’re lying. I want to see what the cops and coroner all thought.”
“I didn’t think coroners worked that fast.”
“It depends on the situation.” And in this one, it could be days before a full report came out. He was right on one thing—BDSM deaths stood side by side with suicides at the bottom of the priority list when it came to cause-of-death examinations. Still, they’d have initial impressions, and those would be in the case notes. “Where are you now?”
“Home.”
I gave the intercom buzzer one final push. Still no answer. Alana was either out or working. “Can you get to your mate’s place quickly?”
“Be there in fifteen.” He gave me the address, then added, “I really do appreciate this.”
“You owe me a coffee. And I hope you realize there may be nothing I can do.”
“I know.”
“Meet you there, then.” I hung up, then shoved my cell back into my purse and headed down to my car. Ben’s dead friend lived in Prahan, which wasn’t that far away, even with the late-afternoon traffic going nowhere fast.
I got there with a few minutes to spare. Ben was nowhere to be seen, so I leaned against the trunk of my car and studied the building. It was one of those boring brick designs that were put up in the latter part of the twentieth century—a basic straight-up-and-down affair with few windows and little imagination. Someone had recently painted it cream, and there were neatly trimmed hedges along the front and the sides, but the greenery didn’t do a whole lot to relieve the blandness.
Not a place I could live in, if only because the apartments didn’t look particularly large. It would have made me feel like a caged animal.
The roar of a motorcycle caught my attention. I looked around to see a leather-clad man on a big, mean-looking bike come roaring up the street toward me. He gave me a wave when he saw me looking, then slowed and drove the bike into the parking spot behind my car.
I smiled and walked back to him. “Fancy entrance,” I said, as he took the helmet off.
Ben patted his bike affectionately. “Haven’t given this old girl a run for a while. It’s nice to be on her again.”
I looked at the bike. It didn’t look anything particularly special to me. “It’s a bike.”
Amusement gleamed in his bright blue eyes. “No, it’s a 1975 GL1000 Gold Wing. Some of this baby’s features were way ahead of her time.”
“Well, I’m charmed to meet her,” I said, voice dry. “Now, do you want to take me up to your mate’s place?”
His grin was as sexy as all hell as he climbed off the bike, his teeth a stark contrast to his rich black skin. “Not into motorcycles?”
“No.” But my treacherous hormones were certainly into all that leather. He was a tall man—nearly a foot taller than me, and at five seven, I wasn’t short—and powerfully built, with chiseled features and thick black hair. And all that wonderful black leather fit like a glove, emphasizing and enhancing his muscular build.
He undid the stud at his neck, then lowered the jacket zip, revealing a dark blue T-shirt underneath. My nostrils flared, sucking in the musky scent of man mixed with just the faintest hint of perspiration.