Butterfly Girl

  Butterfly Girl

  A Heck Collins Mystery

  Wayne Purdy

  Copyright © 2021 Wayne Purdy

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Henrique Morais

  To Devon

  Be You

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Acknowledgement

  Books By This Author

  About The Author

  Foreword

  It's been nine years since I published my first novel, A JUNIPER THROUGH THE CRACKS. At the time, I imagined that I would bang off another book every year or so, but, obviously, that didn't happen. I've been writing, off and on in the interim, admittedly, more off than on, but i wasn't ever able to finish anything.

  BUTTERFLY GIRL came to me almost fully formed. I was nearly finished a sci-fi/historical fiction novel about a man who is transported back through time to war-torn Europe to prevent his father from making a terrible mistake. I may come back to that someday, but for now, Heck Collins lives rent-free in my brain. He's got more stories to share and I want to tell them. I hope you want to read them.

  I hate that this needs to be said, but it does. Trans rights are human rights, and trans women are women. If you can't make that make sense, then this book isn't for you. Put it down and read something else. I'm not debating anyone about it.

  I tried to write my trans women as sympathetically and realistically as possible. If i got it wrong, then that's on me. I'm sorry. I'm trying. All I can do is be better today than I was yesterday.

  One of the pitfalls I had to navigate was the tired, old trope of trans woman as victim or sex object. That's hard to navigate when you're writing about a serial killer targetting trans women. I did fall in love with Katherine Chosuk, even though she's not in the book very much. I'm toying with the idea of having her star in a cozy mystery on her own sometime in the future. For now, its just an idea simmering on the back burner. She will be in the sequel, THESE TROUBLED TIMES. I hope you come back when that one is finished. I promise, it won't be another nine years.

  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy BUTTERFLY GIRL. I sure enjoyed writing it.

  Keep giving 'em Heck!

  Wayne Purdy

  Prologue

  Sandra Mack walked briskly along the sidewalk and down the street. The sky was darkening, and the streetlights had only just come on, illuminating the gloaming in little cones of light. Friday nights had become routine, despite her best efforts at avoiding just that. She was young and feeling comfortable in her own skin. Finally. No easy task for most young women in their early twenties but especially hard for her. She had a plan. She was only going to be young once, and she wanted to make the most of it. To grab life by the balls and carpe the hell out of that diem.

  Sandra swore to herself that she would enjoy life, explore her own sexuality, discover herself, before she settled into a relationship. What was that cheesy expression that had become a suburban battle cry? Oh, yes. Live. Love. Laugh. It used to make her cringe, but now she saw wisdom in those three little words. She was re-thinking her plan.

  Sandra had an active account on Tinder, which led to an active sex life. She had a few regular beaus too. None of them were Mr. Right, she knew, more like Mr. Right Now, but they all left her wanting more. She was craving something other than just sex. Something fulfilling. She wanted intimacy. She wanted, well, Christ, she wanted the sort of relationship her parents had. They were the living reincarnation of Ward and June. They even finished each other’s sentences. Paging Dr. Freud. There was a lot to unpack in that thought, but she didn’t need to worry about it tonight. Whatever she decided, her parents would fully support her. Not a lot of girls in her shoes could say that with confidence.

  Sandra checked her watch. She was running late. She was supposed to meet Katherine at the office, and Katherine did not like to be kept waiting. Until Sandra met Katherine, she didn’t know her own worth. Sandra’s greatest fear had been that she would never amount to anything, that no one would see her, see who she really was. She feared that she would be sexualised, that her entire existence would be boiled down as a plaything. Worse, an oddity. Katherine taught her otherwise.

  Katherine had her quirks. She was inflexible about punctuality. She had her schedule down to the minute, and she didn’t like any deviation from it. She was also borderline paranoid. Security was never far from her mind. Sandra wasn’t sure, but she got the distinct impression that whatever Katherine wanted to see her about, it was important. Life and death important.

  Sandra turned into an alley that led to a vacant lot. It was littered with debris, including used condoms and the occasional hypodermic needle. She stepped carefully, the gravel crunching beneath her designer heels as she avoided the urban minefield. She didn’t like the lot. It wasn’t well lit, and there were often vagrants lurking around. It wasn’t safe for a woman to travel alone. Especially at night. There was something else about the lot, something she couldn’t put into words. It was rundown and decrepit. It used to be a building, but they tore it down in the name of progress. Now, it was a monument to nothingness. It was unmet potential. It was the remnant of something else, something destroyed, like a deer’s head mounted over a fireplace. She quickened her pace.

  “Sandra,” a voice called from the shadows that clung to the fringes of the lot. Her heart skipped a beat. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”

  Sandra gasped and placed a hand over her breast. “What are you doing here?”

  “You come through here every Friday.”

  “Have you been following me?”

  “It’s not like that. You won’t take my calls. I need to talk to you.”

  Sandra pinched the bridge of her nose and took a long, calming breath. “We’re through. I told you that. I can’t be the person you want me to be. I just can’t.”

  “I only want what’s best for you. Then we can be together.”

  “I’ll decide what’s best for me, thank you very much. If you really want us to be together, you’d understand that.”

  “We’ve been over this so many times. You could be better.”

  “Better? Did you really just say that I could be better?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that you could be perfect.”

  She shook her head. “I think I’m already perfect. We’re done.” She turned to walk away.

  Strong hands fell on her arms, holding her in place, drawing her closer. “No. We’re not.”

  “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  Her former lover looked at her with cold, bronze eyes. She met the gaze but didn’t like the darkness she saw and looked away. A tear ran down her cheek. A gentle finger traced its path before cupping the side of her face in a rou
gh hand. Sandra tried not to flinch. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me.” For her whole life, Sandra was told that women like her could only be one of two things; sex worker or murder victim. She fought tooth and nail, railing against becoming the one that she didn’t see the other until it was too late. His strong hands enveloped her thin neck, tightening. Constricting her windpipe. Her breath was abruptly cut off. She opened her mouth trying to suck in air, gasping and wheezing. Tried again and failed again. Her vision darkened.

  “Hurt you? I could never hurt you. I love you.”

  They were the last words Sandra Mack heard before death claimed her.

  1

  Hector

  The stage was darkened with strategically positioned blacklights falling on the woman dancing on stage. She twirled her bra in her hand before flinging it onto the head of a young man seated at Pervert’s Row, the cup resting on his crown like a frilly yarmulke. She strode towards centre stage, each exaggerated sway of her hips eliciting a chorus of randy catcalls from the crowd. The woman grabbed a pole mounted onto the hardwood surface with one hand and lifted herself off the ground, spinning and twirling with the grace of a gymnast. It was a remarkable show of core strength. The crowd appreciated it too, judging by their applause.

  I stood on my perch like a magnificent bird of prey, protecting my charges from the wily predators stalking them. That’s just a glorified way of saying that I’m a bouncer at a strip club. If anyone starts feeling his oats, it doesn’t usually take much for him to kowtow to my commands; a stern look from the icy blue eye not covered with a black leather patch, or a firm hand on the shoulder, and he’ll fall right back into line. Usually. Sometimes things get rough and I have to ask the gentleman to leave, politely, with my fists.

  This makes me sound much more violent than I am. Almost always, these situations can be deescalated. My military training had me talking an enemy combatant into lowering his firearm and surrendering or convincing some scared kid to not detonate the bomb strapped around his chest, but drunken frat boys are more unpredictable than soldiers and that makes them dangerous. They’re undisciplined and cocky. I’m a big man, and I carry myself with a confidence that I know can be intimidating and I always back my words up with actions. I never write a cheque that I’m not prepared to cash. That’s why I always try to talk things down first, because once that line is crossed, I’ll stay with it until the job is done. It’s how I was trained.

  Pink is blaring from the sound system. I don’t know the name of the song, but it’s the one about girl power and not taking shit from anyone. Good tune. Catchy lyrics. “Gentlemen put your hands together, and welcome Jasmine to the stage,” the DJ says, announcing the next dancer. Jasmine climbs the steps with a practiced grace, slowly gyrating her hips to the beat of the music. Pervert’s Row erupts into cheers and raucous catcalls. Jasmine smiles and makes eye contact with one of the young men, feeding him the fantasy that she is into him, that she can be his.

  It’s all a sham, of course, but she sells it. The schmuck will buy a table dance from her, believing that he can be Richard Gere to her Julia Roberts, except he’s no millionaire, and whatever money he has will end up tucked securely into her lacy bra. He’ll thank her for the privilege too.

  Jasmine dances with a lot of skill, and it was obvious that she had been dancing her entire life. Her parents probably took her to a dance studio on Saturday mornings when she was a little girl, where she learned to plié and pirouette. What do her parents think of those dance classes now? Do they regret all the time and money they sunk into them? Do they regret all the cold coffee and idle chatter with the other parents? Probably.

  Jasmine, not her real name, obviously, is one of the good ones. As my dad would say, ‘she’s got a good head on her shoulders.’ Good everything else too. She’s sporting a pair of implants that must have cost her a pretty penny. Money well spent if I say so myself. I shook that thought from my head before it found traction and stuck. One thing I promised myself when I took this job was that I would never, under any circumstances, allow myself to become involved with any of the girls. It was just a bad idea. Never shit where you eat. Not one of my dad’s sayings but I think it applies just as well as anything he would say.

  After Jasmine came Cinnamon, then Cherry and Ginger. I called them the Spice Girls. Next up were the Luxury Car Girls, Mercedes, Porsche, and Lexus. Finally came Mariposa. As a bouncer, I don’t have favourites, but between you, me, and the fencepost, she was my favourite. She strode to the stage with the cocky confidence of a prize fighter, wearing a pink bra and boy shorts. Both of her toned arms were bare, showing off intricate tattoo sleeves. She flashed her dazzling white smile, and the Row exploded into cheers and catcalls. She was the club dime, a perfect ten, and the featured dancer.

  Mariposa's real name was Hazel Abe. She was Japanese. Well, she was born here but to Japanese parents, so I guess she’s Japanese Canadian. Or maybe just Canadian? I have no idea how she labels herself, and I don’t really care. It didn’t matter. The strobe lights hit her, and she looked angelic. Except with her tits out. Angels don’t do that. Then it dawned on me. She was an angel, like something painted by one of the great Renaissance masters, Raphael or one of the other ninja turtles. She was a modern day La Fornarina.

  Her dark hair cascaded around her like a silky halo and her eyes were closed. Her honeyed body shimmered in the lights. She let the music flow through her. All part of the act, but if I’m buying what she’s selling, then the men on the Row don’t have a chance. I turned my head, it would be too easy to get sucked in, to allow myself to be distracted from my duty. This is how the ancient mariners must have felt when they heard the siren’s call, beckoning them ever closer to their craggy demise. A quick scan of the club told me that all eyes were on her. There was no trouble brewing and that was a good thing.

  Hazel finished her set and got dressed again, picking up her clothing from the stage. She had thrown them there haphazardly as she tantalizingly removed her scant wardrobe one piece at a time, until all she was wearing was a smile. As she was getting dressed, one of the men on Pervert’s Row approached her for a private dance. The DJ announced the next dancer, Khaleesi. Hazel shot the young man a hard glare and stalked away. He probably said something crude. It was an occupational hazard, and most of the girls ignored them. Hazel wasn’t always able to swallow her pride. I kept an eye, literally, on the interaction. It had all the earmarks of a brewing storm.

  “Come on, sweetheart. You know you want it,” the man said.

  Hazel avoided his eyes and ran her hands through her hair. “I said I’m not interested.” She stepped around him and tried to walk away.

  “I know you want it.” His hand dropped down and grabbed his crotch, weaponizing his penis. It was the corporeal threat that women imagined whenever they walked alone at night, or climbed the derelict stairs in a parking garage, or jogged past a group of cat-calling men. It was the niggling fear in the back of their minds come to life. He was unsteady and his glassy eyes were filled to overflowing with lust. A sloppy sneer that reeked of privilege was drawn on his face with the same finality as a signature on a contract. This young man was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. He wore that entitlement as surely as he wore his Brooks Brothers.

  She narrowed her eyes into slits but turned away from him, headed towards the lady’s dressing room. Fight or Flight. She was trying to avoid a conflict. The man grabbed her by the bicep and spun her back towards him, so closely that her breasts brushed against his chest. I started forward. It was getting out of hand. Before I could close the distance, Hazel brought her knee up and into the man’s groin. He doubled over.

  “You fucking bitch. This is your job.” His face reddened and flecks of spittle built up around the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m not a prostitute,” she said. Her voice was cool, but I could hear the tremble in it.

  “You assaulted me. I’m going to press charges.”

  I grabbed him
by the collar and pulled him up. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

  “Get your hands off me. I’m going to sue you. I’m going to sue this whole fucking place.”

  “I thought you might be a sewer,” I said. I pointed to the security camera mounted on the wall. “We have it all on tape. You put your hands on her. She defended herself.” I led him away. His free hand massaged his injured crotch. The doorman opened the door, and I pushed the man out.

  He stood on the sidewalk, apoplectic with rage. “You’re fucked. You’re going to hear from my lawyer.” The doorman slammed the door, ending his impotent threats. We wouldn’t hear from him again. He didn’t have a case. There were signs posted all over the club. The women could touch you, but you could never touch them. Ever. Not without their consent. That was probably good advice for outside the club too.

  I walked towards the bar and gestured for the bartender, Alice. She was a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair and a tight tank top. In any other setting, she’d be the centre of attention. At Pandora’s Box, she was relegated to second string. “What’s up, Heck?” Alice was clearing away empties. The bar was ringed with wet circles, giving it the appearance of a well-travelled passport. Here, a Mexican beer. Stamp. There, an Amsterdam blonde. Stamp. A thick, Irish stout. Stamp. A Canadian whiskey. Stamp. A chardonnay. Stamp. Jamaican rum, Russian vodka. Stamp. Stamp. A Sapporo that a ridiculous hipster never finished. Stamp. It was like a UN meeting attended by a wobble of drunks.

  “Thirsty,” I said. “Can I get a water?”

  “Sure, hon,” she said, fetching a bottle from the cooler and tossing it over. I caught it in one hand, unscrewed the lid, and chugged it down. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

  “Gotta keep hydrated. Especially in this weather.”