Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 03 Page 7

  “Okay,” Decker said. “I just hope Mama doesn’t go into a major depression if it’s not hers.”

  “Well, that’s a chance she’s willing to take.”

  “I’ll be at the station in a couple of hours,” Decker said. “Would you call Sophi Rawlings for me?”

  “Already did, Pete. Where’re you going now?”

  “Gonna cruise for sugar.”

  Marge said, “Wear gloves.”

  It was nearly midnight, but Sunset Boulevard was still teeming with bugs. Decker found three streetwalkers idling at a corner gas station next to a Mideastern vender selling huge stuffed animals at ridiculously low prices. The toys were imports, and no doubt didn’t meet American safety standards. A month ago a batch had been seized at Foothill, all the teddy bears and doggies stuffed with flammable rags that combusted spontaneously in hot weather.

  Decker parked on a side street and approached the streetwalkers. The first whore might have been a plump, freckled-faced farm girl, except she was wearing fake leopard-skin hot pants, a matching halter, and knee-high black boots. The other two were black. One had dyed her hair platinum blond and painted her clawish fingernails high-gloss black. The other girl had a short Afro, a fur choker around her neck, and seven earrings in each ear. As Decker neared, the one with the earrings nudged the one with the claws, and the trio began to disperse. Decker sprinted to them and yelled, “Wait!” The girls stopped. Fingernails spoke up:

  “We’re goin’.”

  “I suppose you ladies have some ID on you.”

  The girls began to reach into their purses.

  Decker said, “Don’t bother. I believe you. I’m a very trusting fellow.”

  The girls eyed each other. A black-and-white pulled up at the corner. Decker showed his badge and waved the cruiser away.

  “Say what, Detective,” said Fingernails. She was gazing at her feet. Her spiked heels gave her at least six inches of height. A wonder she didn’t need a balancing rod to walk.

  “What’s your name, honey?” Decker asked.

  “Anything you want,” Fingernails answered. The other hookers laughed.

  Decker’s eyes bore into hers. “What’s your name?” he asked again.

  “Amanda.”

  Decker stared at her for another minute. He asked, “And how long have you and your girlfriends worked the area?”

  “You gonna bust us, or what?” asked the plump white girl.

  Decker said, “That all depends.”

  “On what?” asked Amanda.

  Decker said, “On if you cooperate.”

  “Watchu want?” Amanda asked.

  Decker smiled.

  Amanda said, “C’mon. I’ll do you in the back alley.”

  “Do what?”

  “Do what you want,” Amanda said.

  “What do I want?” Decker said.

  Amanda’s eyes clouded. “I ain’t saying no more.”

  “I’m not here for badge pussy, Amanda,” Decker said.

  “Then what do you want?” asked the white one.

  “A little help.”

  The girls were silent.

  Decker said, “Question number one: Any of you know a lady named Myra Steele?”

  More silence.

  “Aw, c’mon, girls,” Decker said. “Where’s your sense of civic duty? Besides, the longer I hang around, the more I drive away your business.”

  “Why you hassling us?” said the one with the earrings.

  “’Cause you guys are the first streetwalkers I saw,” Decker said. “And I love leopard skin.” He eyed the white girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Chrissie,” she said.

  “Chrissie,” Decker repeated. “Glad to know you, Chrissie. You know Myra Steele?”

  “I might.”

  “You know she was beat up pretty badly?” Decker asked.

  “I mighta heard something like that.”

  “Oh, and what else might you have heard?” Decker said.

  “Don’t say no more,” Amanda whispered.

  “You have something to share with us, Amanda?” Decker said.

  “I didn’t say nothing,” Amanda answered.

  “You know, Amanda, I hang around, it’s your pockets that are goin’ empty. Your man gets pissed off at you, not me. See, I’ve got time. I’m paid to do this.”

  “Bully for you,” said Amanda.

  Decker asked the girl with the earrings, “What’s your name?”

  “Maynona,” she said.

  “Maynona’s a nice name. Can I call you May for short?” Decker asked.

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Good,” Decker said. “I’ll call you May. Did you know Myra Steele, May?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe you know she’s still in the hospital?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you also know who her pimp might be?”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “But maybe you do.”

  Maynona looked off to her right, stared at stuffed pink elephants and black-and-white pandas.

  Chrissie said, “I think she was an independent since Letwoine got blowed away.”

  “Nice try,” Decker said. “But you know and I know that no one is an independent here.”

  “Well, maybe she wasn’t no independent,” Chrissie said. She unknotted her halter strap and tied it tighter. The increased pressure flattened her round breasts and made them pop out of the sides of the garment. She gave Decker a sultry smile.

  He remained stone-faced and said, “So if Myra Steele wasn’t an independent, who was she working for?”

  The girls were silent.

  Decker took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to each girl. He lit their smokes, then lit one for himself.

  “There some new foreign businessmen around here that scare you gals?” he inquired.

  “Maybe,” Amanda said.

  “Do they have names?”

  “You ain’t getting them from me,” Amanda said.

  Decker opened his jacket. He said, “See that gun?”

  The girls didn’t answer.

  “It’s a nine-millimeter automatic,” he said. “We dicks are finally beginning to get real, you know what I’m talking about. Mr. Foreign Businessman starts hassling you, you tell me. Mr. Beretta and I will take him out to lunch.”

  “Shit, that’s puny against a sawed-off,” Amanda said.

  “You know, we can carry shotguns, too,” Decker said. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Who’s Myra’s man?”

  “I ain’t’ tellin’ you nothin’, ’cause I happen to know that the dude’s crazier than shit,” Amanda said.

  Decker smiled, wondering, How crazy is shit? He said, “Mr. Foreign Businessman of the Hispanic persuasion?”

  A faint flicker passed through Amanda’s eyes. Decker went on.

  “Happen to be spookin’ you with some weirdo hexes?”

  “My man’s not Myra’s,” Amanda said defiantly.

  “Sure about that?” Decker said.

  “Yes.”

  “Does the name Conquistador ring a bell?”

  Amanda sneered. “He’s a wimp.”

  “El Cid?”

  “Wimpo dos,” Amanda replied.

  “What can you tell me about Myra’s man?”

  The whore drew her finger across her lips.

  “Think about it, honey,” Decker said. “Give me something, or maybe your man will hear things you don’t want him to hear.”

  “I’m real scared,” Amanda said. But it was false bravado.

  “Myra’s man is suppose to have a tattoo on the back of his hand,” Maynona volunteered. “Between his thumb and forefinger.”

  Chrissie spoke up. “A heart with a ribbon on it.”

  Decker nodded. A Mariel tattoo—traditionally, it meant an executioner. The guy was bad news. “Anything else?” he said.

  “Swear to God, that’s all I know,” May said. “We keep away from them.”
<
br />   Decker believed her eyes if not her words.

  “This is all stupid,” Amanda said. “They said it was her john that cut her, not her pimp.” She bit her lip, then said, “You know something different than that?”

  Decker said, “Yeah, what about this bad-assed john? Any of you know him?”

  The girls didn’t answer, but exchanged knowing looks.

  “Anyone of you ever service him?” Decker asked.

  “Why you so interested in Myra Steele?” Chrissie asked. She scratched her cheek, still pocked with acne. “And her john?”

  “Because rumor has it that this mean ole trick has been bailed out,” Decker said. “Now we’ve got a pissed-off pimp and a psycho john running the streets. Shit, ladies, I’d hate to see one of you end up like Myra.”

  Maynona raised her eyebrows. Decker caught it.

  “Ever service the man, May?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Boy, you gals are kind of quiet tonight,” Decker said. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna fill in the blanks. I’m gonna say that all three of you have serviced him, ’cause this trick likes ladies of the evening, and he’s been cruising the area for years.”

  “You can think what you want,” said Amanda. Her eyes had returned to the ground.

  “You ever see to his needs?” Decker asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Did he ever get freaky with you?”

  She stayed silent.

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that, just maybe I’ll drop the word that you gals dig servicing John Q. Psycho.”

  “You don’t scare me, Mr. Hot Shit Detective,” said Amanda.

  “I’m not trying to, Amanda.”

  “Yes, you are, and it ain’t working,” Amanda said. “I ain’t afraid of Myra’s john. Dude’s a lame-o.”

  “A lame-o?” Decker said. “You mean he’s stupid?”

  “No,” Maynona said. “He limps. That’s ’cause he only got one leg.”

  Amanda said, “He tries anything, I’ll bust his head open…like Myra did.”

  “That so?” Decker said.

  “Yeah,” Amanda said. “That’s so. Besides, Mr. Lame-o Big Dick never done nothin’ bad to me.”

  “Big Dick?” Decker asked.

  “The dude is hung,” Amanda said. “I mean to say he packs a wallop.” She laughed. “But he always paid for what he took.”

  Decker said, “Was Big Dick kinky?”

  “Not with me,” Amanda answered.

  “Sadistic?”

  “Nope. Not once. I don’t take shit from no one.”

  “I heard the guy’s a vet,” Decker said. “Knows how to shoot, knows how to handle knives.”

  There was a moment of silence. Amanda broke it.

  “Don’t bother me none,” she said, her voice less convincing. “My old man takes good care of me.”

  Decker said, “I bet he does, as long as you make your quota. But when things get a little slow, I bet he’s not too understanding.”

  Amanda didn’t answer.

  Decker paused, then said, “So the gimp never tossed you, eh?”

  “Not even a little bit.” Amanda smiled. “I was surprised when I heard it was Lame-o Big Dick. He never seemed like the type.” She sighed and added, “But I been wrong before.”

  7

  The woman looked composed from afar, but as Hollander got close, he noticed a spasm in her right lower eyelid. Her face was long, her complexion mottled with two pronounced bags under washed-out blue eyes. Her lips seemed almost bloodless, her tawny hair hung limply to her shoulders. At her side was a man in his fifties, medium build with gray wavy hair and brown eyes. Stubble was sprinkled over his fleshy cheeks and large chin. Must be the bounty hunter, Hollander thought. He escorted them into the squad room.

  “Charlie Benko,” the man said, holding out his hand.

  Hollander shook hands and smiled at the woman. She had tears in her eyes. Hollander said, “You people want some coffee? You must be tired after flying in so late.”

  “Not for me, thanks,” said Benko. “I’m already tanked up with caffeine. Dotty?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Tea? Hot cocoa, maybe, Mrs. Miller?” Hollander offered.

  “Nothing, thank you,” she whispered.

  “Have a seat,” Hollander said.

  “By the way, Detective,” Benko said, “her name isn’t Miller. She remarried. It’s Palmer.”

  “Sorry about that,” Hollander said. “Uh, you explained her the procedure—”

  “Yeah, she knows she can’t just waltz in there and take the kid. Paperwork right, Dotty?” Benko patted her hand. “We’re hopeful on this one. The bastard ex was spotted in the area a couple of times before. Unfortunately, I still can’t find him, but it doesn’t mean the sunnabitch isn’t hiding out somewhere.”

  “What’s his name?” Hollander asked.

  “Douglas Miller,” Benko said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a picture. “Appreciate it if you’d pass it around. Bastard’s wanted for back alimony on their other three kids.”

  Hollander stared at the picture and said, “He just took one of the kids?”

  “Yeah, the other kids are older and wouldn’t go near the sunnabitch,” Benko said. He threw his arm around Dotty. “Thank God for small favors, huh?”

  Dotty started to smile, but her face crumpled. She buried her face in her hands.

  “C’mon, Dotty.” Benko hugged her. “Everything’ll be all right, honey, just take my word for it.”

  Dotty continued to cry. Benko looked up at Hollander and shrugged. He said, “When can we see the kid?”

  “I’m waiting for Detective Dunn. She’s the one who’ll accompany you to the foster home.”

  Dotty dried her eyes on the back of her sleeve and asked, “Is she okay?”

  “The kid? Oh yeah,” said Hollander. “Just fine.”

  “I mean she wasn’t beaten up?” Dotty asked.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Doug drinks,” Dotty said. “Don’t have no control when he’s drunk. That’s why I left him.”

  “Smart move, Dotty,” Benko said. “Smart move.”

  Dotty said, “Oh God, I want my little girl back!” She broke into sobs. “He did it on purpose. He don’t love her, he just did it to spite me, the bastard.”

  “We’ll get him,” Benko said. “I’ll find him, Dotty. I always do. Something’ll come up.”

  Hollander said, “How’d he snatch her?”

  Benko said, “Just never returned with her on visiting day. Some asshole judge demanded the sunnabitch have parental visiting rights. Well, like I said, the other three wouldn’t go with him. But a little two-year-old, what does she know? Friggin’ judge. Letting a sunnabitch like him have visiting rights. Dotty tried to tell her about Doug, but the bitch wouldn’t listen.”

  Hollander continued to stare at the photo. He asked, “How recent is this picture?”

  Benko said, “Why? You know the sunnabitch?” He smiled at Dotty. “See? I told you something would come up. These guys are sharp. Where you know him from, Detective?”

  “I don’t know him under the name Doug Miller,” Hollander said. “But the sucker looks familiar. Let me stew on it.”

  “Sure, take your time, take your time!” Benko checked his watch, then began to pace. “I got loads of pictures. I’ll start showing them around here again, since you say he looks familiar. When’s the girl coming?”

  “Who?” asked Hollander.

  “The girl who’s taking us to the foster home.”

  Hollander smiled. “Detective Dunn is five-eleven, one-sixty. She’s female, but she ain’t no girl. She should be along any moment.” Still focused on the picture, Hollander shook his head.

  “Keep looking, Detective,” Benko said. “It’ll come to you.”

  “What did your ex do for a living, Mrs. Palmer?”

  Benko said, “I don’t know what he’s doing n
ow, but he was a roofer when Dotty was married to him, right?”

  Dotty nodded yes.

  “Well, we’ve got lots of laborers living in this area,” Hollander said. “He’d blend in without a second glance. Ah, the detective cometh.”

  Marge gave a wave. They stood as Hollander made all the necessary introductions. Marge held Dotty’s hand and said, “I’m sorry for all the pain you’ve suffered. I really hope we’ve found your little girl. But I’ll tell you again what I told you over the phone, the child we found looks younger than two and a half.”

  “Heather’s little. She looks young,” Dotty managed to say. She brushed her hair away from her face.

  “I hope she is your Heather,” Marge said. “Has Sergeant Decker arrived yet?”

  Hollander said, “He was called in on an emergency code seven. You can buzz him if you need him.”

  Marge shook her head no and smiled inwardly. Code seven meant a meal break, but when they used it in front of civilians, it meant getting tied up with something personal. In Pete’s case, he’d probably gone home to catch up on sleep. No matter. Let the guy rest.

  Hollander said, “Detective Dunn, take a look at this photo for me.”

  Marge studied Douglas Miller.

  “He look familiar?” Hollander asked.

  “Yeah, let me think, let me think,” Marge said. She examined the picture, then handed it back to Hollander. “I’m blocking. It’ll probably come to me when I’m showering.” Marge turned to Dotty. “Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered.

  It was nearly three in the morning when they reached Sophi Rawlings’s home. Sophi was dressed in a short-sleeved white cotton shift and a lightweight shawl. She was standing outside the door as Marge pulled the unmarked up to the curve. A thin layer of mist lay suspended in the early morning air. As they came out of the car, Dotty’s breathing became audible.

  “I’m Detective Dunn, Ms. Rawlings,” Marge said. “I spoke to you on the phone. This is Mrs. Palmer, the possible mother of Baby Sally, and this is Mr. Benko. He accompanied her down from the Bay area.”

  “Come on in,” Sophi said. “The girl’s asleep, but I left a night-light on next to the crib.”