Malcolm Livingston

Carrie got a new client the following night. One that paid well. He was a big businessman in town, older, in his late 60s. He had a chauffeur with a limo. The limo drove by slowly, inspecting each of the girls, before finally stopping next to Carrie.

"I'll give you an hourly rate for the entire week. Hop in," Malcolm said. It wasn't quite that easy, as the chauffeur first stopped and frisked her. He was wearing latex gloves, Carrie noticed. And there was a crowbar in the trunk, although that was explainable.

"You're the only one of these hours worth the time," Malcolm growled. "Someone should just do away with all of them."

He wasn't a terribly skilled lover. He was wealthy and paid well, but Carrie was thinking she may have just identified her first suspect.