Lacey Lee -and- The Case of the Missing Model

by Jay Petto

 

The Mad Hypnotist had struck again, this time absconding with the delectable Veronica Day. The little blonde had been taken from a dressing room at the Ritz Modeling Agency an hour earlier and I had no doubt that the police were already baffled. Still, I wanted to find out what they knew.

A press card and a bit of persuasion got me past the police guard at the door. The reception area oozed taste. It was done in a cool off-white, with oh-so-sophisticated portraits of agencyÕs models displayed along the walls. A number of cops, in uniform and out, darted about, argued or simply stood and scowled.  They really didnÕt go with the room.

One of the scowlers was thrilled to see me. ÒJust what I need,Ó he groaned. ÒLacey Lee: girl reporter.Ó

ÒTom Mahony, Boy Detective,Ó I gave him my prettiest smile. ÒAnd youÕve got just what I need – facts. Is it the same guy?Ó I waved my hand to indicate the offices.

ÒYeah. Same M.O. – victim gone, gloating message, nobody saw anything, except maybe the receptionist, and we havenÕt been able to get her to talk yet.Ó

ÒFrightened?Ó

ÒNo,Ó he drawled. ÒShe wonÕt talk until ... well, all sheÕll say is that sheÕs been bad.Ó

ÒThat canÕt be a confession, or you wouldnÕt have turned so red. Spill!Ó

He leaned forward, like they always do when itÕs good. ÒI didnÕt tell you this, but when we got here, she was writing, ÔI have been naughty and must be spanked,Õ I donÕt know how many times. It was eight sheets of paper, front and back, in a fine hand. She wonÕt make a statement until an officer, ah – Headquarters is trying to figure out what to do.Ó

ÒShe isnÕt holding out for a judge to do the honors? Standards must be slipping. What else?Ó

ÒWeÕre dusting for prints, but IÕll lay odds there wonÕt be anything to find. Our boy probably put the receptionist under, then had her escort him to Day. Her writing exercise is just his idea of a joke.Ó

ÒWell, what do you expect from someone who has his victims write ÔI am a pretty plaything for the Mad Hypnotist. PS: YouÕll never catch him, muh-ha-ha-ha!Õ I mean, really!Ó

ÒHeÕs one twisted individual, all right. Twelve women vanish without clue – one a policewoman! They reappear days or weeks later, with no memory of where they were or what happened.Ó

ÒIÕve got a clue about what happened.Ó

ÒYou also have a dirty mind.Ó

I stuck my tongue out at him. ÒYou have no idea.Ó

There was little else Tom could tell me, though he hinted that I ought to be careful, what with a hypnotic sex fiend on the loose and all. It was rather sweet of him, but honestly, I can take care of myself.

Back at the newsroom, I typed up what I had for the morning edition. One of the columnists was handling the shock angle (with just the right hint of prurience – Walt always gets the good stuff), so I left out the bit about the receptionist, but told Walt in case he could use it. After that it was ÒgoodnightÓ from the editor and off for home.

Home is two-story house up Pinecrest Road. ItÕs an Aladdin kit house my folks left me – a Hudson, if youÕre familiar with the style. All the trees hide it from the road and on windy, moonlight nights itÕs almost magical. You can believe that almost anything is about to happen. As a matter of fact, tonight was a night just like that. I could feel it, like electricity flowing through my veins.

I unlocked the door, stepped in and paused. Someone waited in the living room. I knew it without looking, knew that the old wing chair was occupied. A shiver of anticipation ran through my body and I walked slowly into the room, though I wanted to dash.

A petite blonde rested before me, wispy underwear doing nothing to hide her charms. She slumped with her head against the side of the chair, like a doll waiting for someone to play with her.

Well, that someone had just walked in the door. I leaned forward. ÒWake up, Veronica,Ó I whispered and her eyes opened. ÒItÕs time for our bubble bath.Ó


PS: YouÕll never catch me, muh-ha-ha-ha!


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