Ch. 10 / Pt. 3 : When They Wear the Mask
A mile away from the nearest other address, La Femme Rouge sat on the far southeast of the peninsula, hedged in by forest to the north and a steep descent toward the Atlantic to the south. The only road leading there went through Beau-Bassin (technically Nouvelle Beau-Bassin), a historically blue collar suburb thoroughly controlled by the local Québécois mob, for which La Femme Rouge served as a front. Everyone knew this, of course. But nobody did anything about it.
An absolutely enormous rectangle of building, its first floor served as a bar and strip club; or, rather, a bar and a performance area for burlesque, go-go, and exotic dancers, not formally a strip club for alcohol licensing reasons. Its second floor served as extremely inexpensive rental housing for some of its more eager performers. Certainly they enjoyed a fair amount of sex, and certainly some amount of drugs exchanged hands, but it wasn’t a brothel, no, nor a sale point for narcotics distribution.
Everyone knew the truth, of course. But nobody did anything about it.
The building’s third floor also served as rental space, but every rumor Booker had heard and every report he’d read indicated that the mob actually kept a number of its offices up there.
Nobody did anything about that, either.
But if someone got caught holding a bag of molly outside of a CVS in Baldwin, well…
Booker took a deep breath and got out of his car. He pulled the loops of his facemask back behind his ears as he walked toward the front door. Four signs warned customers that they had to wear facemasks while inside. Three more warned them to sit at least three feet apart and not to move the tables, each placed six feet apart.
He pulled the door open and walked in.
For a 9:15 night before a 10 o’clock curfew, the place felt crowded. Moreso than the parking lot had suggested. Booker wondered how many of the customers lived upstairs, how many had just come downstairs to have a drink and get a change of scenery. Crossing the bar, Booker found Castellanos tucked away in a corner booth, alone. From where she sat, she couldn’t see the stage.
Booker sat down across from where. “What the fuck?”
She grinned at him, looking somehow refreshed. Her cheeks glowed. “You know what the best taste in the world is?”
He sighed, taking off his mask and putting it on the table. “You’re drunk.”
“The best taste in the world is the first sip of Speyside smoke after six months sober.”
“We’re in the middle of a case!”
She set her current glass down among the clutter of others. She’d had seven drinks already—though who knew when she’d started? Examining her collection, she sighed. “Hmm. All empty. Come with me to the bar?”
“If I was a different man I’d—”
“If you were a different man, I wouldn’t have invited you.” She edged her way out of the booth and stood. “You’re here because I chose you, John.” She pulled her cellphone from her pocket. “Now, come on. I need another.”
“Al…”
She waved her cellphone at him as she walked away. “You have to see this.”
He stood, picking his mask back up, and hesitated. He considered leaving, getting back in his car and driving away; let Castellanos find her own way home. Except she was right. He wasn’t that kind of man. Groaning at himself, he followed Castellanos to the bar.
They took two stools as far from the rest of the customers as possible.
“Glen Moray,” she ordered. “With a tequila back.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender replied.
“Wait, nevermind. I’m too drunk to taste the price. Just get me a double tequila, rocks, with salt, please. Well is fine. Thanks.”
The bartender nodded and set off to do their duties.
“What do you think they’d all look like, averaged together?” Castellanos asked.
“What? Who?”
“Every composite sketch and photograph of every dead-eyed killer, if you put them all in a flip book and ffffffpp through, what face do you think you’d see?”
“I dunno,” Booker said. “Some white guy. What is it you had to show me?”
She keyed in her phone’s password and swiped through a few screens to a video. Loosely, she handed him the device. “Camera footage from one of the only payphones still operable in the whole metro area. Watch this.”
In the grainy film, a sedan pulled up alongside the payphone stall. Booker recognized it. He recognized the man that climbed out of it, too; the man wearing the mask. The man in the mask walked into the payphone, deposited a few coins with a gloved hand, and picked up the handset.
“That’s Robert Robertson, Jr., calling a wellness check on himself,” Castellanos summarized slurrily. “He used the non-emergency line, provided all relevant information, and hung up. He went back home, took a nap, and killed two cops.”
“So he planned it all out in advance.”
“Mm-hm. Might be why he had a bug-out-bag ready to go. But it means he’s still in the area. He didn’t ditch his car to take a train, he ditched it to leave a cold trail. And if he’s on foot after leaving a cold trail, where do you think he’s hiding?”
“He’s in Squatter City,” Booker answered.
Castellanos bobbed her head, a manic expression painting her maskless face. “And what do you think is gonna happen when a bunch of cops with guns head to Squatter City and start banging on doors and waving badges around?”
Booker leaned against the countertop, dropping Castellanos’ cellphone. “Oh, my god…”
“So. Want a drink?”
Booker shook his head. Shrugged. What did it matter, anyway?
But before he could order, a call came in. Someone had found another body.
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