Frank Zafiro

Some Degree of Murder

Revenge is a confession of pain.

— Latin Proverb

Sunday, April 11, 2005 Bus Station, Early Evening

VIRGIL KELLEY

Coming into River City by bus would not have been my first choice. I didn’t have much choice in the way of travel unless I wanted to drive and that’s a task I hate doing, especially interstate.

The equipment in my bag was the sort of thing that the airlines frown upon. Thankfully, no terrorist has ever used a Greyhound to crash into a Denny’s, so the rules are looser with ground travel. Besides, no one would really complain about an attack on either of those two staples of Americana.

Greyhound’s employees stack unchecked bags underneath a bus without a second of hesitation. Their eight dollar an hour mentality couldn’t handle any extra strain from the Department of Homeland Security.

When the bus finally shuddered to a stop behind the station, I nudged the sleeping woman next to me. She had slept with her mouth open for the last hour of the trip. She snorted and adjusted her position in the seat. I glanced around the bus as people got to their feet and shuffled to the exit.

She boarded the bus in Ritzville with a handful of other passengers. With her purple muumuu and frizzy hair, I imagined her to be one of those lonely women who collect Harlequin romance novels and sing lullabies to a cat named Mr. Noodles. The image helped sour my already poor disposition towards the woman.

I elbowed her until she woke up with a scowl on her face. “What the hell?”

“Get up.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

I sneered at her and fought back the frustration of two days on a Greyhound bus. I stood, shoved past her and exited the bus.

The sun hovered barely above the horizon, casting a pinkish glow onto the city. An old Mexican in a Greyhound uniform slowly unloaded the luggage from underneath the bus. I stood back and watched him work as a number of idiots stared on in wonder, excitement boiling over on whose bag would come out next.

When the old man finally got to my bag, he tossed it on the ground in a sweeping arc. My lip curled and I looked around. There were too many people with too many eyes for me to lay into him. He should have known better.

I snatched the bag and wandered through the terminal. The smell of failure and desperation hung in the air. When I sniffed again, it smelled more like piss and vomit.

Near the front of the station, three cops stood around a grey-haired drunk who wore a green army jacket and dirty blue jeans. Their dark blue uniforms sported patches that read River City Police Department.

The middle cop, the fat one with the double chin, talked with the drunk while the two young storm troopers took up defensive positions, triangulating their prey. “Wake up, man. You gotta go. People are complaining.”

The drunk didn’t respond and he stared at the ground.

The two young storm troopers could have been poster boys for Nazi Fag Monthly. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed and skinny, they both wore black leather gloves and worked them by rubbing their knuckles in to the palms of their hands. They both had the fresh faces that the Aryans would covet in prison.

The doughboy cop kicked the drunk’s shoe. “Hey, man.”

The drunk shook his head and his eyelids drooped.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I got.”

“Got what?” asked the fat cop, his belly barely contained by his belt.

“I got suicidal tendencies,” the drunk slurred loudly.

“No kidding? I got them, too. That band rocks.” The chubby bastard smiled at his joke and the two hyenas with him giggled.

I shook my head and walked away. Cops are the same in every town.

Stepping out the front of the station, I saw the sun dip below the horizon. I smiled at the darkness and headed west along First Avenue.

River City had changed since the last time I visited. New buildings stood proudly next to renovated structures. My hotel, The Davenport, was supposed to be the shining star of downtown. When I left in the early nineties, the Davenport was an aging, boarded up shit hole that the local winos broke in to so they could sleep off a night’s drunk. Now, the rooms were going for almost two hundred a night and the hotel was a destination. The booking agent gushed that I just had to see it. I let her book me there just to get her to shut up.

Cars whizzed northbound on Washington as I waited to cross. When the light changed, a yellow Humvee slammed on its brakes and skidded into the intersection in front of me. Horns blared from several cars and a one-fingered salute came through the window of the red Saturn directly behind him. The guy driving the Hummer chatted away on his cell phone, oblivious to what was going on around him. That’s why I hate to drive. Too many idiots are out there.

First Avenue was poorly lit, but even in the falling darkness, I saw his dirty, brown shoe peeking out beyond the doorway about a hundred feet in front of me. My bag was instinctively on my left shoulder, but I wasn’t carrying a weapon to reach for with my free hand.

The bum stepped out of the doorway, blocking my path down the street.

“Gimme a dollar.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw no one behind me.

“No.”

As I passed him, he grabbed my left arm. “I said gimme…”

My fist smashed into his throat, forcing him to gag and fall to his knees. His hands clutched his throat and he gurgled in pain. I checked the street again and in the far distance, a car was headed my way before it turned south. The wino shuffled on his knees to get away from me, his hands still around his own throat. With a quick step, I kicked him in the back, driving him to the ground.

I ran my fingers through my hair and continued walking to the Davenport. Six blocks later, I saw why the booking agent gushed about the hotel. A valet ran out of the garage and helped a leggy blonde slide out of her red BMW. She dug into a little black purse, pulled out a bill and stuffed it in to the valet’s hand. He stared at her breasts during the entire transaction.

The blonde’s high-heels clicked as she wiggled down the sidewalk in front of me. She had a blood red blouse on with a short, black mini-skirt. A thin black line in her panty hose ran up the back of each leg.

Inside the hotel, she clicked off to the right and entered the Peacock Lounge. From the balcony alcove above, a four-piece jazz band belted out a Dixieland song. Several groups of senior citizens sat at the tables and couches on the main floor, enjoying the music and prattling on about their lives. I followed the carpeted path to the front desk, staying off of the marble floors.

“Welcome to the Davenport Hotel. May I help you, sir?”

“I have a reservation.”

“Name, please?”

“Virgil Kelley.”

The clerk’s skinny fingers tapped away on the keyboard. Even with the long fingernails, she was an expert typist. She grabbed some paperwork and stuffed it in to a small pamphlet.

“Okay, Mr. Kelley, you are in room 614,” she said and handed the pamphlet to me. As she explained the rules of the honor bar and the array of services the hotel offered, I thought about the leggy blonde who walked into the Peacock Lounge.

The clerk concluded her practiced speech with, “We hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

I nodded at her and wandered over to the elevator.

In my room, I tossed my bag on to the bed and scanned the room. King size bed. Television in a dark wood cabinet. Writing desk. Nightstand.

In the bathroom, I splashed my face with cold water before soaping it up. Suds covered my face like a mask. I blinked at myself in the mirror for a couple of minutes before washing the soap off.

From my bag, I pulled out a couple of pairs of black slacks along with three polo shirts of various colors and hung them in the closet. I made a note to myself of the iron in the closet.

In the top drawer of the dresser that was part of the television cabinet, I stacked my socks and underwear. I grabbed my toiletry bag and walked back into the bathroom where I laid everything out on the sink. Toothpaste and toothbrush. Hair gel and brush. Shaving cream and razor. Cologne and skin conditioner. Everything paired with its mate for faster preparation in the morning.

From the bag on the bed, I pulled the four final items out. Two Glock 27s in Kydex holsters, a box of 40 caliber rounds and a roll of duct tape. Using the duct tape, I strapped both guns and the box of ammunition to the back of the television cabinet. I tossed the tape back in to my bag and pushed it underneath the bed.

I took stock of the room one last time before lying down on the bed and closing my eyes. I tried to rest, but I was still wound up and needed to find a way to relax.

Monday, April 12th 0214 hrs 300 North Erie Street

DETECTIVE JOHN TOWER

The rain was merciless. Huge drops pelted the windshield and hood of the police car next to me with a metallic ping. Every five seconds, a wiper blade swept across the windshield in a futile effort to keep it clear. A patrolman sat inside the car, writing his report.

I felt like a complete sissy standing there holding an umbrella. I held a luke-warm cup of coffee in my right hand. I’d picked it up at the Circle K at Market and Euclid on my way to the scene. The stale brew sat roiling in my stomach. Bile crept back up my throat. I’d forgotten how terrible graveyard coffee was.

The rain showed no sign of letting up. According to the patrolman in the car, it had only been a drizzle when they came across her, but by the time they taped off the scene and called me, the downpour began. I hate rain. As far as destroying a crime scene goes, it runs a close second to other cops.

I sipped the bitter coffee again and forced it down past the bile. The Crime Scene Forensics Unit had hastily constructed four posts and a tarp over the top of the body in an effort to preserve some of the evidence. A good idea, I suppose, but anything more than three feet away from the body was being washed away in the deluge of water.

I surveyed the scene, ticking off facts in my mind. My head hurt with the beginnings of a hangover, but focusing on the work helped some. The field where the body lay took up most of the block to the south and east of the roadway. The road was made up of dirty gravel and ran in a northeasterly direction up to Trent Avenue. The Looking Glass River to the northwest. Railroad tracks to the south. Most of the area consisted of deserted industrial businesses.

Smart, I decided. If he did it on purpose, anyway. Come in from the north or the south. Low traffic road. Quick dump, quick exit.

I swung my gaze back to the body. Whoever had murdered her obviously did not care if she was found. She lay on her back in the weeds, which were thick and green. The patrol car’s spotlight lit up her face and made her features seem severe, even from ten feet away. If her eyes weren’t closed, it would almost appear that she was staring up at the tarp above her. I prayed for a footprint in the mud, but knew it was unlikely. The weeds were too thick.

All my potential evidence was just washing away.

“Tower!”

I turned as Detective Bill Lindsay trotted up to the car. He wore a light windbreaker and a Colorado Avalanche ball cap. I moved the umbrella over for him to share. Once underneath, he shook off water and glanced over at the body, ten feet away.

“Dump job?”

I shrugged. “What was your first clue?”

Lindsay took my sourness as camaraderie. “Hey, I’m just a poor second grade detective,” he said with a grin. “I work burglaries and vandalisms, not homicides like you Major Crimes studs. I’m here to help, but this technical stuff is way beyond me.”

“You’re in a good mood for two in the morning.”

Lindsay grinned even wider. “Call-out pay, baby. When the phone rings this time of night, it means someone died. If it ain’t family, then it’s payday.”

I took another sip of coffee. I was half-hung over as it was, with the worst of it still waiting on deck. I wasn’t in the mood for his chirpy bullshit.

“What do you know?” Lindsay asked.

I looked away from him and back at the body. The tarp collected water and sagged under the weight. Occasionally, one of the crime scene techs would gently push up under the middle of the tarp and force the water off the sides.

“Female. Hispanic. Torn clothing. And a whole lot of rain.”

Lindsay chuckled. “Yeah. I thought I saw the animals marching two by two on my way down here.”

That wouldn’t have been funny in the daytime, I thought to myself. It sure as hell wasn’t funny at two in the morning, ten feet from a dead girl.

“So…” Lindsay gave me an expectant look.

“So what?”

“We gonna work the scene?”

I shook my head. “Forensics isn’t finished taking photos. Cameron showed up with the van and only had one roll of film with the camera.”

Lindsay snorted. “Goofball.”

I shook my head again. “Not his fault. Whoever stocked it last should’ve reloaded the case. Anyway, he’ll be back in a few minutes. He’ll finish his photos. Then we watch Forensics collect evidence. Most of what we do is watch. Ask questions. Make a few decisions.”

“You don’t work the evidence?”

“The actual, physical evidence? No. Do you dust for prints on your burglary scenes?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“Forensics.”

“They photograph the point of entry, tool marks, whatever?”

“Yeah.”

“And you base your investigation off what they find?”

“Yeah.”

“Same concept here.”

He didn’t answer. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was concentrating on the body. I sipped the coffee again.

A pair of headlights cut through the downpour and headed toward us. Cameron Whitaker pulled up in the gray Forensics van.

“Thank God,” I muttered.

“Hey, hey, CSI!” Lindsay boomed.

Great.

It was going to be a long night.

Monday, April 12th

Davenport Hotel, Around 2 in the Morning

VIRGIL

The water scalded my hands as the sink turned red. My wet fingers fumbled with the small bar of soap as I tried to unwrap it. I tossed the paper to the ground after it finally opened.

I rubbed my hands together, feeling the soreness in my knuckles and wrists. It was stupid and sloppy to lose control.

After the long bus ride into River City, I was dying to be back outside. I fought the urge as long as I could, but by eleven thirty I was going stir crazy. I wasn’t sure what I wanted but I knew I wasn’t going to find it in the hotel. Before leaving, I grabbed my coat and knife, but left the guns strapped to the back of the television cabinet.

I hit the street and a block away I wandered in to the Bayou Bluez, a dance club with thumping bass and flashing lights. I paid the cover charge and found a seat near the bar.

A DJ spun some terrible music while a crowd of spoiled rich kids and wannabe gangsters gyrated on the dance floor. Two scantily clad blondes, both with huge breasts, shook their wares up on a raised platform. Both wore white and black leopard print mini-skirts, thigh high boots and outrageously large fur-covered top hats. Three large plasma screen monitors on the wall behind the platform highlighted the jiggling blondes.

“Wanna drink?” a feminine voice said into my ear.

I glanced over my shoulder at a brunette in her early twenties. She had a cute face, but was twenty pounds overweight. Her tight t-shirt read, “The party starts here.”

“Sure. A beer.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind.”

She stared at me for a moment as her brain struggled with my request. Finally, she shrugged and walked away.

The music from the speakers pounded into the crowd. The idiot mass hopped up and down while hollering along with the lyrics.

You said you a gangsta

But you nevah pop nuttin’

You said you a wanksta

And you need to stop frontin'

The waitress brought my glass of beer back to the table. “That’ll be four bucks.”

I pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled as the crowd continued to yell along with the rapper.

“What the hell is this shit?” I asked and nodded towards the DJ.

“Old school 5 °Cent,” she gushed. “He’s awesome. We’re having his after concert party here next week. Did you know he’s playing at the arena?”

“I have no clue who in the hell the guy is.”

She twisted her lips and widened her eyes at me.

The music rattled in my brain even though I did my best to drown it with my glass of beer.

My eyes searched the tables looking for anything that looked promising. I found her at a table with a couple of brothers.

Monday, April 12 th 0554 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

I pressed the Stop button on the mini-recorder in my hand. I had dictated my initial report, outlining what little we’d discovered so far.

My eyes burned from a lack of sleep. I rubbed them with my thumbs, but it did no good. The bile that had been deep in my throat four hours ago had worked its way up to the back of my mouth and I swallowed repeatedly to drive it back.

I rewound the tape for several seconds and pushed play.

“Victim had bruising around the neck, suggesting strangulation. There were also nine stab wounds on her upper chest. Due to the weather conditions, it was not possible at the scene to determine if these were post-mortem or if they contributed to the cause of death.”

I was surprised at the gravelly sound of my own voice.

“No apparent trace evidence was discovered at the scene. CSFU Technician Whitaker will continue his examination in conjunction with the Medical Examiner.”

I pushed Stop, then Record.

“Victim had the following items in her possession, in addition to her clothing.” I flipped my note pad page and read the list. “Sixty-three dollars in US currency, in the form of three twenty dollar bills and three ones. One condom, Safe-T brand. A silver ring on her left middle finger in the shape of a crucifix. A tube of lip balm, kiwi-strawberry flavor. A partial pack of spearmint gum. One gold necklace, also with a crucifix.”

I pressed Pause and reviewed my notes briefly before pressing record again.

“No purse was found. There was no identification or identifying paperwork.”

I clicked off the recorder and scanned my remaining notes. There was no more pertinent information that needed to be in my initial report. Mostly, the notebook was filled with questions. Three were underlined.

Who is she?

What does she do?

Who does she know?

If I could get the answers to these three questions, I could figure out what happened. The plain fact was, most people were killed by someone close to them. Lover, brother, co-worker. It was always a good place to start.

I pressed Record. “Investigation will continue, pending preliminary forensic results. Requested CSFU obtain fingerprints and run AFIS check as a priority.”

If she’d ever been fingerprinted anywhere in North America, her prints would be in AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Whitaker would take post-mortem prints and run those prints through AFIS. With any luck, that’ll solve question number one.

I flipped through my notes, making sure I had put everything I needed in the report. The information was scant. I hoped that Whitaker would come up with something more for me. He was a smart kid.

I set the recorder down and rubbed my eyes again. I exhaled heavily, cursing my luck. A second murdered girl case in two weeks. That meant more media coverage and administration interference. Dead girls are high profile.

I caught the first one because I was up next on the assignment rotation. I didn’t have a problem with that. Everyone takes a turn. It’s a bitch of a case, though, and slow going. That’s why I asked Lieutenant Crawford to give me a pass on the on-call rotation for the weekend-because I didn’t need another case right now. I needed to solve the Taylor girl case first. The request to drop out of the rotation was denied.

The Taylor file was already an inch and a half thick. Some cases got to be too thick for file folders and I had to transfer them to the large, plastic three-ring binders. I had a feeling the Taylor case would be the same way.

I closed my notebook and slid it next to the recorder. There was nothing more I could do until some of the basic forensics came back. There wasn’t even a populated area to canvass.

I grabbed the recorder and pressed Record. “Investigation continuing. Detective John Tower, Badge #212.”

I popped out the tape and labeled it with the report number. Then I put it in the scribe’s in-box. Glenda was the best transcriptionist in the city and would probably have it typed up before lunch. For all the good it would do me.

The clock on the wall read ten after six. Too late to go home and sleep. I stifled a yawn and wandered back to my desk. In half an hour, people would filter in and the division would get busy. Well, some people would get busy. Others would get busy at looking busy.

I sat back down at my desk and picked up the phone.

Teri answered on the third ring. “H’lo?” Her voice was thick with sleep.

“It’s me.”

“Howzitt?”

“What?”

She paused and yawned. “I said, how is it?”

“Rough case. It’ll take some work. How’s Ben?”

“Still asleep.”

“Good.”

“So was I, if you’re checking.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s only the second time you’ve woken me up today.” Her voice was tinged with humor. “Look, I don’t have any classes today until noon. I can get him off to school. Do you need me to come by when he gets out? I’m done at two, so it’s no problem.”

“Yeah,” I told her. “Come by. Also, I’m going to need to work some odd hours over the next couple of weeks. Can you do any nights?”

“No problem. You guys are my only clients right now.”

Probably the only ones she needed, at the price I was paying. “All right.”

“Why do you have to work nights?”

“Just some interviews I can’t get in the day time.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks for coming by so quick tonight.”

“It was easy.” She yawned again. “I have no life.”

“Me, neither.”

She said goodbye and I hung up.

Ben was taken care of, so I turned back to the desk in front of me. The Taylor file was my only other open case, so I grabbed it and opened it up for review.

Fawn Taylor, born Fawn Madison, was fourteen years of age. She’d been reported as a runaway by her mother, Andie Taylor, one month ago. Two weeks later, her body was discovered next to a dumpster behind the Bingo Parlor at Sprague and Stone. A sixty-seven year old grandmother, Vivian Marsh, spotted her as she walked out to her car after losing her thirty dollar bingo allotment.

I read through the background on Fawn. Her step-father was Steve Taylor. He married her mother when Fawn was three and adopted the little girl two years later. Apparently, her biological father has never had any contact. Andie Taylor said the pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand.

Fawn had good grades at Sacajewea Junior High School until recently. According to her mother, most teachers said she under performed. Last year, her parents caught her with marijuana and her mother feared she was sexually active.

I shook my head at that. Thirteen. I barely knew how to masturbate at thirteen and I thought I discovered something no one else knew about. At thirteen, this girl was already having sex. Times have changed and for the worse.

According to both parents, there had been no major blowout between either of them and Fawn. She just became more and more rebellious against their set of rules and finally just didn’t come home from school one day.

Two weeks after that, her body was discovered.

I read through the Forensics report. There had been signs of sexual assault but no fluids. Nothing from the fingernail scrapings, either. Cause of death had been asphyxiation through strangulation.

Something nagged at me. Tonight’s victim had bruising around her throat. Similar. But strangulation was the number one method of unarmed assault in sexual assault cases. It’s no stretch that both killers would employ the same method. Besides, tonight’s girl had stab wounds, too. Something nagged at me, though. I couldn’t quite say what.

I pushed the file away. What a messed up world. Two dead girls in two weeks and I get both cases. Now I have to find two killers and if Crawford gives me anyone to help, I’ll shit sideways in surprise.

Lindsay had asked me at the scene if the two murders could be the same guy. Ever since the Peter Allen Tyson serial killer case in the late nineties here in River City, any time two people died within ten miles and one month of each other, it was a serial case.

“Lindsay,” I told him, “How much do we know about this girl?”

“Nothing,” he’d said.

“And how much evidence have we collected?”

“Almost none.”

“Exactly.” When he hadn’t gotten it from that, I gave up.

I reached for the file again, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Crawford came around the corner. He was already taking off his jacket and chewing on an unlit cigar.

I remembered when the Chief decided to make the station go smokeless and how Crawford went ballistic about it. He went almost as ballistic when his doctor told him to quit smoking or die of a heart attack. To defy them both, he kept a stogie on hand at all times but never lit up. I’m sure he thought it made him a rebel. I thought it made him look like a reject copy of the guy from the TV show Cannon. He had the whole look. The droopy mustache, receding hairline and expanding waistline. The guy even wore bad suits.

“Tower,” he grunted without breaking stride.

“Lieutenant.”

“Give me a minute, then come to my office and brief me.”

“Not much to tell,” I said.

“Then it’ll go quick.” He disappeared into his office.

I took my time closing the Taylor file and replacing it. I put my recorder away, too.

After Crawford’s “minute” was up, I grabbed my notebook and walked into his office. It was messy, as usual. Crawford was a history nut and black and white pictures of cops were plastered all over the walls. Loose papers and folders were littered across his desk.

“Sit down,” he told me.

I didn’t want to be there long enough to sit down, but I knew he wouldn’t proceed until I took a seat, so I did. Crawford moved his unlit cigar to one corner of his mouth and nodded for me to begin.

I flipped open my notebook. “Deceased is a Hispanic female, probably twenty. No ID on her person. Looks like she was strangled at some point. She was also stabbed multiple times in the chest.”

“Dump job?”

“Probably. No sign of struggle in the surrounding vegetation, but it was raining hard. A lot of our evidence washed away before she was discovered.”

“Sexual assault?”

“Unknown.”

“Hooker?”

I shook my head. “Dunno. She had a condom in her pocket, but these days that just makes her smart.”

“Dump site?”

“300 N. Erie.”

Crawford shifted the cigar in his mouth. “Pretty close to the East Sprague corridor.”

I shrugged. He was right. It was less than half a mile from where the prostitutes congregated and did business.

“What else?”

“Not much. Time of death, cause of death, even her identity will have to come through Crime Scene’s workup on the body. I don’t expect them to finish that today.”

“Who’s the tech?”

“Whitaker.”

Crawford narrowed his eyes.

“He’s good,” I told him.

“Kind of a smart ass.”

I didn’t answer.

“What else?” He asked after a moment.

I flipped through my notes. “Nothing to canvass. Lindsay helped Whitaker check in the evidence. Not much to say, really.”

Crawford removed the cigar from his mouth and spat out of a small piece of tobacco into the garbage can. “Pretty light, Tower.”

“It’s early yet.”

Crawford grunted. “You think it’s related to the one from the Bingo lot? The fourteen year old?”

“Fawn Taylor,” I told him.

“Whatever. You think it’s related?”

He was already thinking serial killer. “I can’t even begin to make that leap, Lieutenant,” I told him. “I have nothing on this case and still have work to do on the Taylor case.”

“You’ve had it for two weeks.”

“Yeah, and I’ve been working it.”

“So do you see any relation?”

I clenched my jaw. “Other than the fact that they’re both female and were murdered and dumped within two miles of each other…no, I don’t.”

“Well, don’t rule it out.”

“I don’t rule anything out until the evidence does.” Nothing like a lieutenant, who was never a detective, giving out free investigative advice. It was like Christmas.

“Good. Where you going from here?”

“I’ll look through last night’s reports for possible related incidents and wait on Forensics.”

“All right. Keep me up to speed. The Chief’s office is calling me every day on this Bingo girl.”

I nodded and left.

I walked back to my desk. I thought about sitting down and starting back in with the Taylor file. I could hear Crawford moving around in his office, though, and knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

To hell with it, I thought, and walked toward the door.

I needed some coffee and Rolaids.

Monday, April 12 th Davenport Hotel, Morning

VIRGIL

I sat at the writing desk in my hotel room, a small cup of coffee steamed in front of me. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out a long, white envelope. Inside was a newspaper article with a hand-written phone number on the corner. I dialed the number and closed my eyes while the phone rang.

On the fourth ring, she picked up. “Hello?”

Her voice was close in proximity but distant in familiarity.

“Do you know who this is?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the heating unit in the room.

“I’m in town now.”

Her breathing skipped a beat and then returned to normal. “Thank you,” she said, her voice shaky.

I wanted to say something to ease her pain or comfort her, but too much time had passed for anything deep or meaningful to be said.

“I’ll be in touch.”

When I cradled the phone, I opened my eyes. With a single press of a button, I called the concierge desk and ordered a taxi.

The cabbie leaned his head slightly out of the rolled down window of his Chrysler. “You sure you don’t want me to wait?”

With a quick glance, I saw him watching me as I opened my wallet to pay the fare. I finished counting out several bills and stuffed them in to his hand.

“I’m fine,” I said.

The cabbie nodded his head, disappointed at the lost fare of the return trip.

The old Chrysler LeBaron turned around in the driveway of the cemetery, its fan belt squealing loudly. When he stopped at the entrance to wait for passing traffic, I realized the cab leaned to the right. I smiled at that because I thought his seat was higher than mine throughout the drive.

My smile faded when I turned around.

“Your mom sent me the article,” I said to her. “I feel kind of stupid doing this, but since I never got the chance to talk to you before I figured I’d take it now.”

A warm breeze blew in from the south and the trees near us rustled in the wind.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. We thought it was best that I stayed out of the picture. I figured I’d spare you that bad father baggage. Some people say a bad father is better than no father, but those people don’t know what they’re talking about.”

The sounds of traffic whirred and wheezed by as we continued our conversation.

“I hated my father. He was a real bastard. I learned to fight from him, though. A kid can only take getting smacked around for so long before he stands up and speaks up for himself. When I finally challenged him, he beat the piss out of me and smacked me around for a couple of more years. Then the day came when I hit him back hard enough that he never hit me again. That’s when I learned what I was good at.”

I glanced around the cemetery and saw an old, white-haired woman brushing off the top of a headstone.

“Your mom, she tried to keep me up to date on what you were doing. I sent her money every month for you and she always sent pictures of you. She never wrote anything, just the pictures. You were so beautiful the day you graduated sixth grade. I loved the little yellow dress you wore. It had blue flowers all over it. I really would have liked to have seen you that day.”

I knelt down in front of her headstone and brushed the top of it with my fingers.

“I wish I could have saved you. But that’s not my life. I don’t think I’ve ever saved anybody. I’ve ruined a lot of people, but never saved just one.”

My finger traced the outline of her name. “I promise you, like I promised your mother; I’ll find who did this to you. Then I’ll do what I do best.”

Monday, April 12th

1938 hrs

507 West Corbin

TOWER

“Tough day fighting crime?” Teri asked.

I closed the front door behind me and slid the deadbolt home. I couldn’t always tell with her if she was sincere or sarcastic. The two gears were about an inch apart.

“Long,” I said. “You?”

“Well, school was a pain, but Ben’s in a good mood. No whining at all.”

“Good.” Ben rarely whines, but when he does, he makes it into an Olympic Sport.

“You need me tomorrow, right?”

I nodded. “After school, and then into the evening. If you want, you can crash here if it gets late.”

“I have a paper I need to work on.”

“You can use my computer.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You let me use it for my English paper last month. It’s ancient. It’s running, like, Windows 1962.”

I shrugged. “Use Ben’s then.”

She laughed. “When? He’s on it from dawn to dusk. And he doesn’t even have to take potty breaks, so there’s no chance at all. You know, if computer screens give out cancer rays, he won’t live to fifteen.”

“Then buy a laptop,” I snapped. “It’s not like I don’t pay you enough.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Then hurt. Then anger.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the coat rack behind the door.

“Where did that come from?” she asked.

I ignored her, walked to the fridge and pulled the door open. Two Kokanees left. I grabbed one and twisted the top off.

“John? What’s wrong?”

I took a pull from the bottle and counted to ten. Then I turned to her.

“Don’t talk about Ben like he’s a monster.”

She cocked her head to her side. “John, I was joking. Ben’s a great kid.”

“It didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded like bitching.”

“Bitching? Like what you said about money wasn’t?”

I didn’t answer right away.

She forged ahead. “I know I cost a lot. I know money is tight with the divorce. But I’m not just some glorified babysitter. I work hard for you and I take good care of Ben. And I don’t cost as much as-“

“I’m sorry.”

She stopped and looked at me. “Okay. Then what’s wrong?”

I shrugged. “Long day, is all. And no wife to yell at when I get home. Sorry.”

Teri gave me a look. I couldn’t tell if it was confusion or pity.

“You eat at all?”

“No. I was just about to make Ben some Mac and Cheese before you came home.”

“Stay, then. I’ll cook. You can eat with us.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I have to work on some math, though.”

“Well, I won’t be any help there. Fear of math is what kept me from going to college.”

That got her to smile just a little. I went into my bedroom and shed my shoulder holster, badge, cuffs and ID card. As always, the pager, my electronic leash, remained on my belt. I thought about changing clothes, but one look at the clock changed my mind. I’d just be undressing again in a couple hours to go to sleep.

I walked down the hall to Ben’s room. He sat in front of his computer, moving the mouse deliberately and clicking. I watched him for a minute before he noticed me.

“Hey, Uncle John.” He pressed a button and paused his game.

“Hey, kiddo. Whacha playing?”

“Swords of the Eastern March.”

“War game?”

He shook his head. “Nah. It’s a fantasy role-playing game. Pretty cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He rolled back from the desk and glided over to me in his wheelchair. I leaned down and gave him a hug. “You were gone a long time.”

I tousled his hair gently. “Got another hard case last night. Then I spent all day working on it.”

“Is it that girl they found?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“The TV news. I watch it at five with Teri.”

That surprised me. I didn’t know they watched the news.

“I see. You finish your homework?”

He gave me a look only twelve year olds can. “Of course.”

Back in the kitchen, I put some hamburger in a skillet and browned it. I found one tomato and some lettuce, but no green onions. I sipped my Kokanee and chopped the vegetables while Teri sat at the kitchen table and did her math. She must have turned on the stereo, because John Mellencamp was singing about Jack and Diane from the living room. Twenty years old and she listens to classic rock. Hates rap. Votes Republican, even though she’s pro-choice. Takes good care of Ben and works the odd hours I need. And then I go and snap at her. Real smart.

I turned to grating cheese and stirring the meat. When it was ready, I added taco seasoning from a packet. I finished mixing it in, grabbed some crisp shells from the cupboard and called it good.

Teri helped set the table.

“Ben! Dinner!” I called.

A few moments later, he rolled into the dining room. “Tacos?”

“Yeah. My specialty.”

Ben smiled. “It’s all you can make.”

“That’s why it’s my specialty. Besides, I make other stuff.”

Teri and Ben both gave me a look. I ignored them and finished putting the food on the table.

“Toast doesn’t count,” Ben said.

“Cold cereal, either,” Teri added.

“Great,” I told them both. “Go ahead and perpetuate that good cop/bad cook stereotype. Why don’t you just make a donut joke while you’re at it?”

Ben was smiling as he made his taco. I thought Teri was, too, though it was hard to tell through her glasses and tight lips.

Maybe she’s one of those people who smiles on the inside, I thought. Mellencamp started singing Human Wheels. She must have put in the Greatest Hits CD.

“You get your math done?” I asked her, putting a taco together.

“Most of it. It’s kinda hard.” She scooped meat into her shell.

The telephone rang. I looked at it hanging on the wall just inside the kitchen and hesitated. I was done with on-call now that the weekend was over, but if they had a call-out and couldn’t reach the on-call detective, they started walking down the list. It was hard to believe they’d get all the way down to me now that I was at the bottom again, but you never knew.

I got up and answered. “Hello?”

“John? It’s me.”

Stephanie. Great.

“What do you want?” I walked around the corner from the dining room and deep into the kitchen, stretching out the cord.

“You don’t have to be rude,” she said.

“I’m not being rude. Just direct.”

“No, it’s rude.”

“What do you want, Stephanie? You didn’t call to teach me phone etiquette.”

“I wanted to remind you to send my check.”

“I sent it to you right after I got my first paycheck this month. You didn’t get it?”

“I did. I mean the check from this coming paycheck.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’m serious. You get paid this Friday. I checked at the credit union.”

“So what? I don’t have to pay you again until the 31. It’s in the divorce decree.”

“John, you get paid every two weeks and this is a three pay-period month. You get paid on the first, the fifteenth and the twenty-ninth. You need to pay alimony out of every check. You get a third check, I get a third check.”

Unbelievable. “That’s not what the decree says.”

“It is what the decree says.”

“You want me to go pull it out and fucking read it to you?” I raised my voice.

“Don’t curse at me.”

“It says twice a month. On the 15and the last day of the month.” I lowered my voice to a loud whisper. “I read the fucking papers, Stephanie.”

“I said, don’t curse at me. It’s crude.”

I wanted to scream every curse word I’d ever learned at her.

“Don’t try to con me,” I said.

“I just want what is rightfully mine,” she said. “Are you going to send a check or do I need to call my attorney?”

I ground my teeth and said nothing.

“John? What’s it to be?”

I opened my mouth and closed it before I let the words slip out. I forced them back down and tried to remember Stephanie before the divorce. Tried to remember her smile. Her hands on my face. Making love in the mornings. How she was with Ben right after the accident.

None of it worked. All I could see was her bitter face and her hand extended out. Pay me.

“Go ahead and call your lawyer,” I said and hung up.

When I walked back into the dining room, Ben and Teri eyed me carefully as I slammed the receiver into the cradle. Both returned to their meal and we all ate without a word. I tore into my second taco and finished my Kokanee in less than two minutes.

After my second taco, I was suddenly full. My stomach roiled from the previous night’s drunk and too much coffee all day. My eyes hurt from staring at reports all day long, none of which ended up having anything to do with my murder case. And now a Stephanie headache was starting.

Teri rose and put her plate in the sink. She gathered up her backpack and gave Ben a small wave. “See ya tomorrow.”

Ben waved back with his taco.

“Bye, John.”

“Bye.”

“Thanks for dinner,” she said and slipped out the back door. Ben ate quietly and I stared at my empty Kokanee bottle while we both listened to Teri’s Honda Accord start up and pull out into the alley, then drive away. Mellencamp began singing Love and Happiness.

I rose and grabbed his plate and mine. I put them in the sink on top of Teri’s. Ben sat at the table, staring at the tablecloth. I grabbed the last Kokanee and sat back down at the table.

“You want one?” I asked him, twisting off the cap.

He shook his head, not taking the bait.

I sipped my Kokanee while he wheeled into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. I knew that when he was finished, I would need to help change him into some pajamas and lift him into bed. I thought about what I would say to him after tucking him in.

But when the time came, I kissed him on the top of his head and said, “Sleep well, buddy. See you in the morning.”

“Love you,” he said.

“You, too.”

I turned off his light and wished for more Kokanee, but the fridge was empty and I left it that way.

Tuesday, April 13th Davenport Hotel, Morning

VIRGIL

My luck had improved with cabs since the visit to the cemetery. After the hotel concierge called, River City Taxi sent over a clean, white Taurus. The driver was a pudgy ball of a man with shiny silver hair. I climbed into the cab and he asked in a low, gravelly voice. “Where to?”

I rattled off the location from memory. He glanced over his shoulder at me with a disapproving look.

“What?”

He turned forward and shook his head. “Nothing.”

The cab lurched forward as he pulled away from the curb. A couple of minutes later we were hurtling east on I-90. The cabbie never said a word while we were on the freeway and I didn’t try to get him to talk. I stared out at the passing landscape, absently wondering what life would have been like if I stayed.

At the Altamont Avenue exit, the car swayed when the cabbie turned to the off ramp. We were on Third Avenue as we approached Altamont and a dirty 7-11 occupied the southwest corner.

“Stop here.”

“But this isn’t where you said you wanted to go.”

His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror and I pointed over at the convenience store.

The car bounced into the parking lot before pulling in front of the building. A smirk grew on the cabby’s face and he shrugged. “You don’t belong here,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s rough.”

“I’m fine.”

“Want me to wait?”

I pulled my money clip from my pocket and peeled off a ten dollar bill. He reached over his shoulder and carefully took the money from me.

“Need change?”

With a shake of my head, I climbed out and swung the cab door shut.

Inside the 7-11, a blast of cold air from the vents and Bon Jovi from the speakers shocked my system. It was April in River City which was definitely too early for air conditioning.

The clerk behind the counter was a heavy-set black man with a round face and sleepy eyes. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he wheezed as he walked.

From a back cooler, I pulled out a bottle of water and went to the counter.

“Good morning, sir,” the clerk wheezed.

“You get a lot of kids coming in here?”

His eyes challenged mine. “Why?”

I put my bottle of water on the counter and pulled out a picture. “You ever seen this girl in here before?”

“You a cop?”

”No.”

“Why you want her then?”

“She’s my daughter.”

He watched me for a minute before deciding to speak. “Yeah, she came in here a while back. Haven’t seen her in at least three, maybe four weeks.” His breathing was shallow as he spoke. “She really liked those Chic-O-Sticks.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Those orange sticks,” he said pointing at the candy rack.

“She ever tell you where she was staying?”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. Did she?”

“She never said.”

“She ever come in here with anyone?”

He rolled his eyes up as he thought. “I don’t think so. She was a nice kid though. Polite.”

I searched his eyes and knew he was holding something back. His eyes flicked away from me but quickly returned. “What else?” I asked.

He pointed at the picture. “She didn’t look like that.”

“What’d she look like?”

His tongue darted across his lips before rubbing them together. “Strung out.”

“Dope?”

The big man shrugged. “I don’t know, but she looked like she’d seen better days.”

He rang up my water and I dropped two dollars into his hand. Outside the store, I opened the bottle and took a swig.

River City is divided into four sectors by two streets-Sprague, which runs east to west, and Division, which runs north to south. This makes finding your way around the city fairly easy. The streets south of Sprague run in consecutive numbers. I was three blocks from where the newspaper article in my pocket said she was found.

As far as newspaper articles go there was a lot of speculation and very little facts in the narrative. The detective handling the case was non-committal in his responses. They must train them in the academy to dodge questions. I’d been in town two days and nothing new on her murder was in either the newspaper or on the local news. Another girl was found dead so she was getting the few minutes of airtime devoted to sensational stories. The rest of the time was spent lamenting the city’s current budget crisis and a certain city council member who was discovered to have a lesbian lover.

I headed northbound on Altamont until I found the bingo lot where her body was found. I could smell shit somewhere in the area. The morning sun was out and there was still light dew on the weeds sprinkled around the lot. My nose crinkled reflexively as I tried to shake off the stink.

The article in my pocket said she was found next to a dumpster behind the bingo hall. I walked slowly over to the area, trying hard to keep the anger from boiling over. The only green dumpster stood next to the building and the surrounding fence line. Nothing remained on the ground near the dumpster. I couldn’t determine exactly where she was found. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands and my teeth ground into each other.

The smell of shit dragged me back to reality. I unclenched my fists and checked my shoes to see if I was the one carrying the smell around.

Turning away from the dumpster, I pulled out a soft pack of Camels and shook a cigarette free. I lit it up, hoping to calm my nerves and kill the smell of crap that hung in the area. When it did neither, I left the parking lot.

I wandered the streets, watching the area’s inhabitants and their activity. With black slacks and a polo shirt underneath a clean black jacket, I stood out like a blood stain on white carpet. For that reason I spent some time dropping into a couple of antique shops, a car parts outlet and an adult book store. All of the businesses, especially the sex shop, were dingy and depressing. The clerks stood behind their counters with watchful eyes, waiting for someone to snatch an item and bolt from their shops.

Outside the stores, the eyes of the street were more watchful. Slow moving Buicks with middle-aged men behind the wheels prowled the streets. Their eyes flashed past the blacks who stood in the doorways of defunct businesses, waiting for the right customer to request their product. But the drivers didn’t want dope. They were looking for the drug that only men need.

A number of women and girls in tight skirts sauntered up and down the sidewalks. Their slow walks emphasized their hips and signaled prospects that they were on the menu.

More police cars traveled through this area in a half-hour than I had seen anywhere else in the world. All it told me was that everyone knew the action was down here. And no one seemed to be hiding it.

Near the west end of the Sprague strip, sat a club house for the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross. Four mean looking Harleys stood out front of the square, white building. Heavy steel bars covered the windows and the front door. Two cameras, each at an opposite end, monitored the front of the building. I didn’t walk around to the back, but I was sure there would be cameras around there as well.

Next to the clubhouse was the La Playa Motel and across the street was the Palms Motel. Two low cost stop-and-flops for the hookers and johns. I turned around and stared back down Sprague towards the activity. Cars whizzed past in both directions while the whores and dealers continued their work. Something nagged at me about the area but I couldn’t place it.

I finally shoved the thought to the back of my brain and walked back toward downtown, trying to figure out what the hell my daughter was doing in this part of River City.

Tuesday, April 13 th 1310 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

The smell of fresh coffee caught my attention before Katie MacLeod’s perfume did. I glanced up as she sat the paper coffee cup down on my desk.

“Black,” she said and winked. “With one hazelnut creamer.”

I reached for the cup. “What are you drinking?”

“Foo-foo crap.”

I sipped the java and nodded my thanks. Katie leaned on the edge of my desk. “Can I run one by you?”

”Go ahead.”

“It’s a burglary case,” she told me. She was a detective third grade and worked in the General Investigative Division, which worked property crimes and lower level crimes against persons. After five years, she could promote to second grade. It took a promotion to Major Crimes or the Sexual Assault Unit to make first grade.

“Residential?”

“Yeah. Witness goes over to his friend’s house and as he’s walking up the sidewalk, he sees a guy walking out of the front door of the house with a TV. It’s not his friend, so he yells at the guy. The guy with the TV walks as fast as he can to a Camaro parked on the street, shoves the TV in the back seat, gets in the passenger seat and the car squeals off.”

“He get the plate?”

She shook her head. “Just the color and that there was a dent in the rear bumper. So the witness goes into the house and sees the TV missing and some things tossed around. He waits for his friend, the victim, to get home. When the victim gets home an hour later, they both hop in the victim’s car and start driving around looking for this dark blue Camaro.”

“So?” I asked.

She smiled. “So, they found it.”

“No way.”

She nodded firmly. “Yes, they did. They started driving around to all the pawn shops and right there on Monroe Street, the witness spots the Camaro pulling out of the parking lot of one.”

“How’s he know it’s the same car?”

“Same color,” she said. “Same guy in the passenger seat. And when they start chasing the car, same dented bumper.”

I considered that. “Pretty solid ID in my book.”

She agreed. “They chase the guy, calling 9-1-1 and racing all over the north side until they lose him. But this time, they got the license plate.”

“Good plate?”

“Came back on a 1987 Chevy Camaro, dark blue in color. Registered to Tony McDonald, right here in River City.”

I sipped the coffee. “You talk to him?”

“I called him up and he didn’t know a thing.”

“Why didn’t you bring him in?”

“He works construction in Wenatchee. Only comes home a couple times a month.”

“On the weekend?”

“Right. So I put a little pressure on him. I told him that his car was involved in a burglary and I needed to find out how. He stammers a bit and then tells me this tale about loaning his car to some guy.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so, too. He says he was visiting his friend over at White Oaks apartments when some guy asked him to borrow his car to go get milk for his family. He’s such a giving guy that he just tossed this total stranger the keys to his Camaro.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “The guy took the car and was gone for several hours. He didn’t notice anything strange about the car or the guy when he eventually brought it back.”

“Did you find out who his mysterious friend was that he was visiting?”

“I did. Dennis Kroft.”

“He’s a real person?”

“Yeah, he is. I looked him up in the computer. He’s had a couple of misdemeanor pops, but nothing serious. And he does live at the White Oaks.”

“Did he alibi up McDonald?”

She nodded.

“Backed up McDonald’s story?”

“Backed it up exactly.”

“Exactly?” I raised my eyebrow at her.

“Exactly. Not one variation. Even gave the same vague description of the guy who borrowed the car.”

“So they talked.”

“Pretty sure of it.”

I rubbed my chin briefly and realized I hadn’t shaved that morning. I’d have to avoid Crawford as much as possible.

“You’ve got to break his alibi,” I thought out loud.

“I’ve got zero leverage on him,” she said.

“You’ll have to bluff him a little.”

Katie grimaced. “I don’t like to bluff.”

“It’s really all you’ve got. I mean, you could sit around and hope to get a hit on the TV, but I doubt that’ll happen. And if you don’t have a lever of some kind when you interview McDonald, he’ll never roll on whoever his buddy was.”

“Probably not.” She smiled and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Any time. Nice to work for a few minutes on something where nobody died.”

Katie chuckled and walked away. “Enjoy your coffee.”

I shook the paper cup. It was almost empty.

Tuesday, April 13th Davenport Hotel Lobby, Early Afternoon

VIRGIL

I found a pay phone in the lobby of the Davenport and used a pre-paid card to make the call. It was answered on the second ring.

“Bobo’s House of Chicken,” the thick voice said.

“Jay, its Virgil. Tell the old man to call me back.”

“Alright,” Jay said. “What’s the number?”

I rattled off the ten digits

“Got it.”

I sat down on one of the over-stuffed chairs and watched the socialites walking around the lobby of the hotel. Several beautiful young women walked into the Jazz City restaurant with a group of older businessmen on their heels.

When the phone rang, I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Virgil.”

“It’s me.” His voice was hard and proud with the first hints of the frailty of age creeping in on the corners.

I put my hand on the wall and leaned into the phone. “Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Saccamano.”

“Have you found what you’re looking for yet?”

“No sir.”

He grunted before asking, “How long will it take you?”

I pushed away from the wall and watched the lobby. “Not sure, but it shouldn’t be too long.”

“Did you see the ex?”

“Not yet.”

A beautiful woman in her late thirties jogged into the lobby. She wore a light blue sports bra over matching running pants. Her body was covered in sweat as she walked in small circles checking her watch. When she lifted her head, she caught me looking and immediately turned away. She walked to the elevators shaking her head.

“You okay, kid? You don’t sound right.”

“I guess this thing is heavier than I thought.”

Mr. Saccamano let out a short cough. “She was family, for Chrissakes. It better be like a ton of fuckin’ bricks on your shoulders.”

I nodded with my eyes closed.

“You still there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I was thinking about what you said.”

Mr. Saccamano’s voice softened. “I don’t want to add any more pressure to you, kid.”

I opened my eyes and stared at the phone. “But?”

“As soon as you’re done, I need you to get back here.”

I leaned back into the phone. “What’s going on?”

“The Charlies are on the move again.” The Vietnamese crew had pushed into Mr. Saccamano’s turf a year ago and we’d battled to push them back out.

“What’d they do?”

“They torched our repair shop in Van Nuys. We had several cars getting worked on when it went up.”

“Any of our guys hurt?”

“Nah.”

“Anything traceable to you?”

“No. Not really. You know the drill.”

I knew it well. Off shore corporations set up to funnel money through. The paperwork was padded with deceased personnel and false names. No one that worked there was ever on the books. I’m sure when the guys showed up for work and saw the building burning they turned and walked back into the crowd. That was the game. If they wanted to continue to play, they had to learn the rules.

“You know which crew did it?”

“No. They tagged it before they burned it, but I can’t read that Gookaniese shit. I need to hire a goddamn translator is what I need to do.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Check around for an old Viet Nam vet with an axe to grind. I don’t think those will be too hard to find.”

“Good thinkin’.”

“They do anything else?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it. Just hurry home, kid. I need you.”

“I will, Mr. Saccamano.”

Tuesday, April 13 th 1542 hrs En route to the Taylor Residence

TOWER

I drove slowly through the Rockwood neighborhood. The houses I passed all had huge, perfectly manicured lawns. Most had gates. The homes sat a hundred yards off the street, nestled amongst tall trees and sculpted shrubs. Most of the homes cost more than I’d make in my career.

The phone rang. I pushed the send button and spoke into the microphone Velcroed to the visor. “Tower.”

“John? It’s Cameron.”

“Good. Whaddya you got for me?”

“There isn’t much,” he said. “I am running the victim’s prints through AFIS now. I should have a name for you later today.”

“Cause of death?”

“Strangulation. And the stab wounds were post-mortem.”

“So this guy is angry,” I muttered to myself.

“What’s that?” Cameron asked.

“I said, any good trace?”

“Not yet,” he told me. “I haven’t been over her clothing yet for fibers, but the body is clean. Nothing from the fingernail scrapings and nothing from the sexual assault kit.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?”

“It appears so. But there’s no seminal fluid.”

“Pubic hair transfer?”

“M.E. said no.”

“M.E. said no? He did the analysis?”

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor, Cameron.”

“What?”

“Do it again. You do it this time. Just to be sure.”

“John — “

“Just do it again, all right?”

He sighed. “Okay, I will. But off the books.”

“On the books, off the books…I don’t care, unless you find something. Who did the Taylor kit?”

“M.E.,” Cameron answered.

“The M.E. again? Why is the Medical Examiner doing tech work?”

“I don’t know. He’s kind of…”

“Arrogant.”

“Yeah, something like that. Anyway, he did both hair examinations.”

“Well, do ‘em both again. Every single loose hair that came from combing both victims. A guy that arrogant and that busy probably rushed through it.”

Cameron didn’t answer.

“What else is there?”

“She had a tattoo, just off her pelvis, right at the bikini line.”

“Of what?”

“A name, I think. Rena.”

I considered that for a moment. “Her name, you think? Or a daughter, maybe?”

“I don’t know,” Cameron said.

“All right. Get back to me if you get a hit on her fingerprint. Or anything on the hairs.”

“I will.” The phone clicked as he hung up.

I drove the last three blocks to the Taylor home and considered what Cameron had told me. The unknown victim case was going to be a lot of work. At least I knew who Fawn Taylor was. Of course that led to the next obstacle, which was asking questions no one wanted to hear, much less answer.

The Taylor residence was one of the smaller homes and one of the few without a gate. I pulled into the long driveway and came to a stop in front of the front steps. The house was dark red brick with bright white trim. Although it wasn’t as large as some of the other homes, with all that brick, I imagined it cost just as much.

When I knocked on the door, Steve Taylor answered. Taylor was thin and wore John Lennon glasses that sat precariously on his nose.

“Detective,” he greeted me with a nod.

“Mr. Taylor,” I nodded back. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”

“Anything to help find the guy who…anything to help solve the case.” Taylor stepped to the side and waved me indoors. The entryway was large and I glanced up at the ceiling, which had to be almost three stories up. A wide staircase wound upstairs to the right. I followed Taylor to the left, through a large room with a piano.

He led me into a smaller room lined with books on dark oak shelves. His wife, Andie Taylor, sat on a long couch looking at a photo album. A half-empty glass of white wine rested on the table in front of her. When she looked up, her eyes were puffy and red. She held a tissue balled up in her left hand.

“Mrs. Taylor,” I greeted her.

She nodded absently and set the album on the table without closing it. In the same motion, she retrieved the wine and took a large sip. I waited until she looked up at me to continue.

When she did, I told her, “I wanted to update you both on my investigation and ask you a few more questions.”

“Has there been some sort of break in the case?” Steve asked from behind me.

“No, sir.”

Andie Taylor watched me, her eyes calm. I remembered how hysterical she had been when I had told her about the death of her daughter. That was to be expected. But she had remained on the edge of hysteria for most of the two weeks since then. I looked at her carefully. She didn’t appear to be drunk or sedated, despite the glass of wine in her hand. The calmness in her eyes still radiated sadness, however.

“Where is your investigation, detective?” Steve asked.

I turned to him. “In a case like this, the forensics team moves slowly to ensure there are no mistakes. Results take time.”

I was lying. Most of the forensics were in several days ago. There just hadn’t been anything helpful. No fibers, no hairs, no fluids. Fawn Taylor had been strangled and possibly sexually assaulted. Probably sexually assaulted is how the actual report read and when Cameron wrote probably, he meant that it had happened but he couldn’t prove it absolutely in court.

“It’s been two weeks,” he observed.

“Yes, sir, I know.”

“Do…these investigations…usually take a long time?”

I could tell he was trying hard not to offend me or his wife.

“It depends,” I told him. “Every case is different. In this case, there hasn’t been anything conclusive yet from the physical evidence at the crime scene. We haven’t had any luck with witnesses. When that happens, the best thing an investigator can do is start working backwards.”

“Backwards?”

I moved around the table, taking a seat on the edge of a white chair. “I need to go back in time and build a timeline of Fawn’s activities. Something may come up that can help. Even small details matter.”

“Didn’t we do this right after she…after you came here the first time?”

“Yes. But that was more general. This will be more specific. And I’d like to do this individually, if that’s possible.”

“You mean separately?”

“Yes.”

Steve glanced at his wife and she nodded to him. “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he said and walked out of the room.

Andie Taylor didn’t watch him go. She motioned to her wine glass. “I don’t suppose you can join me in a drink, detective?”

“I wish I could.”

She smiled humorlessly.

I flipped open my notepad and began the interview. She filled in a few small gaps for me, but none of them seemed to matter. Most of what she said was a repeat of previous interviews. I just hoped that as she spoke, maybe something new would shake loose from her memory. She explained that Fawn’s real father had been the result of a one-night stand and that he had never been a part of Fawn’s life. She didn’t know where he was now. She married Steve Taylor when Fawn was three years old and he adopted her two years later.

“Did the biological father sign off on the adoption?”

She shook her head. “No. I filed for abandonment. That’s why it took two years.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“It’s been over ten years.”

“What’s his name?”

“His name?” She gave me a blank look.

“Fawn’s biological father. What’s his name?”

She blinked and looked away. “I…I only knew his first name. It’s Richard.”

I paused. The father of her child and she only knew his first name? I could see that being the case early on, when it was just a one night stand, but once she got pregnant…

She must have sensed my thoughts because she snapped, “It’s a source of much embarrassment for me, detective. How would you like to be reminded of an indiscretion every time you looked at your daughter? That’s just one more reason why Steven wanted to adopt Fawn.”

I let it lie and moved on to Fawn’s upbringing, which she described as firm but loving. Fawn was a good student, but didn’t always apply herself. She had a few friends but wasn’t cheerleader popular. About a year ago, she caught Fawn with marijuana in her room. Her grades took a nosedive. Around that same time, she believed that Fawn became sexually active.

“Why do you believe that?”

Andie Taylor gave me a knowing look. “Detective, my daughter had breasts at age eleven. She’s always had attention from older boys. She started carrying herself differently. I saw the signs. A mother knows. Besides, I was much the same way at her age.”

“Any boys in particular?”

She shook her head. “I would’ve preferred one nice boy. But she enjoyed the attention. Some of the boys were older. I couldn’t keep track.”

“Did she have a cell phone?”

“Of course.”

“Can I have a copy of the bill?”

“Why?”

“To see who she was talking to.”

“We pay a flat rate for unlimited calls. It’s all on one bill. Besides, we took it away from her about a week before she ran away.”

“Why?”

Andie sipped her wine. “Grades. Attitude. Stupid things, really.” Her eyes teared up and she wiped them.

“When she left, did she say anything? Was there a fight?”

“I can’t remember one.” She sniffed and wiped her nose.

“Generally speaking, kids don’t just take off without some kind of catalyst.”

She shrugged and pulled another tissue from a box on the table between us.

“How close was Fawn with her step-father?”

She took a deep breath and thought. “Very close, I suppose. Until recently.”

“Recently? As in how long ago?”

“Last year. Same time frame as the drugs and the bad grades and the boys. The same time she decided she hated me.”

She cried softly again. I waited while she looked away and dabbed at her eyes.

“Mrs. Taylor, do you think it’s possible that any sort of inappropriate relationship may have existed between Fawn and her step-father?”

“What?!”

“It’s a question I have to ask, even if there weren’t a few signs.”

“Are you asking me if Steven was having sex with Fawn?” Her voice rose an octave.

I paused. “I’m asking if you think there was any sort of inappropriate — “

“I can’t believe this.”

“Mrs. Taylor, I have to explore every possibility, even if only to eliminate it.”

“Well, you can eliminate that!” she snapped. “Steven has been an excellent father. He would never do anything like that.”

“Okay.”

She shook her head. “Are you doing anything to actually solve this case?”

“I’m doing everything I-“

“Have you found my daughter’s killer?”

“No.”

“Please leave, detective.” She looked away, dismissing me.

“Mrs. Taylor-“

“Go.”

I rose and walked out of the room. When I reached the front door, I opened it and stepped onto the porch. The door was heavy and made a solid thunk when I shut it. I stood still for a moment, wondering if I was going to get a complaint out of this. Crawford would take it, that was for sure, but I decided it would never go anywhere.

Just like that interview.

I started down the steps toward my car when I heard the front door open. I turned to face Steve Taylor. I expected him to be angry, but he seemed strangely calm.

“I thought you wanted to talk to both of us, detective.”

“Your wife was upset at the questions I asked. She wanted me to leave.”

“What questions?”

I took a breath and sat down on the steps. I motioned to the steps next to me. He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Did you ever hear from Fawn after she ran away?”

He shook his head. “No. I think that was part of what has been hardest for my wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“No goodbye.”

“She seems a little better than even a few days ago,” I noted.

He shrugged and looked down at his toes.

“Mr. Taylor, if there’s something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.”

He shook his head slightly and then ran his fingers through his hair. “There’s nothing to tell. She’s coping. That’s all.”

“How close were you to Fawn?”

He turned to face me. “I loved her,” he said. “She was my daughter.”

“Your wife said that Fawn hated her. Do you think that’s true?”

Taylor sighed. “That’s her grief talking. Fawn didn’t hate her or me. She was just going through a phase. She was struggling.”

“Struggling with what?”

“Becoming a woman. Being wealthy. Living by the rules. The same things every kid goes through, I would say.”

“No special problems?”

“I don’t think so. She was just acting out and took it too far.”

“Usually,” I told him, “running away is a response to something. Either a single incident or sometimes just a build up over time. Can you think of anything like that in Fawn’s life?”

Taylor sat staring at the walkway below us. After a few moments, he shook his head. “I really can’t, detective. She just…rebelled.”

I watched him carefully. “Were you two close?”

“I was the only father she ever knew. I don’t think Andie ever told her otherwise.”

Steven Taylor met my gaze and I read his eyes. They were troubled, but without guilt. “I asked your wife was if she thought it possible that you and Fawn had an inappropriate relationship.”

His eyes registered confusion for a moment, then widened in surprise. “You mean sexually?”

I nodded and watched him.

A hint of anger flared in his eyes but it was gone immediately, replaced by sadness. “No, detective. Fawn was my daughter. I loved her. There was nothing…inappropriate.”

“Your wife was angry that I asked.”

“I’m not surprised. She’s very sensitive about the issue of Fawn’s fatherhood.”

“You’re not?”

He shrugged. “I realized there was nothing I could do about it. And I loved Fawn, so I adopted her.”

“Can you think of anything else that might help me in this investigation?” I asked.

He appeared lost in thought and my words roused him. “No. Nothing. But I’ll give it some serious thought.”

I handed him one of my business cards. “Call me if you think of anything. Or if your wife does.”

He took the card from my fingers and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I will.”

Tuesday, April 13 th Aphrodite’s Greek Restaurant, Dinner

VIRGIL

I was meeting her at Aphrodite’s Greek Restaurant for dinner. The restaurant was just around the corner from my hotel and came highly recommended by the front desk clerk, especially their wine bar. I got to the restaurant thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet and took a seat at the counter in the small bar. A number of tables were in the area for those who didn’t want to eat in the more formal dining room. Several groups occupied the tables.

The wine bar at Aphrodite’s was softly lit with music reminiscent of the fifties.

Behind the bar, a tall, slender blonde with piercing blue eyes and a bright smile walked over to me. “What can I get you?”

“Do you have any beer?”

She winked at me and her smile never faded. “Sure we do, although none of them are domestic. We’ve got Bridgeport’s Indian Pale, Weidmer’s Hefeweizen and Guinness.”

“Guinness.”

With a bounce to her step, she went into a nearby room and came out with a tall black can of Guinness and a chilled glass. She popped the top and a strong hiss escaped. With a long pour, she filled the glass completely and shook the can. From inside the can, a hard rattle could be heard.

“Did you know they put a nitrogen capsule in the cans to keep the beer fresh?”

I nodded and pulled the glass over to me. “What’s your name?”

She extended her hand. “I’m Catherine.”

“I’m Virgil,” I said and shook her hand. Her skin was cool on mine for a moment before she slipped away to help a table full of customers.

A small dark-skinned man stepped into the wine bar and his eyes scanned the tables. He wore a deep blue club shirt over khaki pants and a thick gold watch covered his wrist. By the way several of the patrons deferred to him, I made him for the owner of the place. He waved hello to a group of people before he turned and strolled back into the restaurant.

I grabbed my beer, took a sip and closed my eyes.

I opened them back up when I heard a familiar voice say, “Virgil?”

Her eyes were frantic as they moved around the bar, searching for anyone she might know.

“Relax, Andie,” I whispered to her.

“I can’t. Someone might recognize me and I told Steve I was shopping.”

“Listen,” I said, trying to get her mind away from her worry. “That’s Dean Martin singing right now.”

She focused her eyes back on me. “What?”

I pointed up to the speakers. “That’s Dean Martin. Just listen.”

We sat quiet for a moment and listened to Ain’t That a Kick in the Head.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“No, I just wanted you to think about something else for a moment.”

She stared at me for a moment before a small smile creased her lips. Her manicured hand carefully picked up her glass and she sipped the Cabernet she had ordered. “You look different,” she finally said. “Your eyes are harder and your face is thinner than I remember.”

I sipped the last of my beer and put the glass on the side of the table. “I did some time.”

“I know. I read the papers after you left.”

“They made me sound worse than I am.”

“You almost killed a man.”

“I did what I was supposed to do.”

Catherine, the bar maid, walked over to the table. “You need another Guinness?”

I smiled at her. “That’d be great.”

She looked over at Angie who stared wide-eyed at me. “Another Cabernet?”

Andie bobbed her head without taking her eyes off of me. Catherine gave a small nod before walking away.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“I did three years for that. I haven’t done any more time.”

“Are you still working for that man?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He held up his end of the bargain. I wanted to keep working for someone who kept their word.”

Catherine came back with our drinks. After she put Andie’s wine down in front of her, she popped another can of Guinness and poured it into a fresh glass. She winked at me before she walked off.

“I’m going to find who hurt Fawn. You know that, right?”

She stared at me over the lip of her wine glass.

“I’m doing this for me but because you asked as well, right?”

She emptied her glass and put it on the table. “Yes,” she said softly, her lips wet from the wine.

“That means you’ll be part of it. You can’t tell anyone. Not Steve. Not the cops. No one.”

“I understand that.”

“Was Fawn using?”

“Using?”

“Dope. Drugs.”

She shrugged. “I think she smoked some marijuana occasionally.”

“No, not weed. Something harder. Maybe crank. Probably crack.”

“Crank? Crack? What’s the difference?”

“Crank is methamphetamine. Crack is jacked-up cocaine.”

“No way. She was a good girl.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“She didn’t have a steady boyfriend.”

“Who’s her best friend then?”

Andie thought for a second. “That would be Natalia Romanov.”

“Is she Russian?”

“Yeah.”

“Where can I find Natalia?”

Andie pulled out pen from her purse and wrote the address down on a napkin.

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to call her for you?”

“No.”

She checked her watch and looked up at me.

“I’m good,” I said to her.

Andie slid out of the booth and put her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks,” she whispered in to my ear.

I watched her walk out of the restaurant before turning back to my beer.

“She’s pretty,” Catherine said as she came over to collect Andie’s empty glass.

“Yeah.”

“Your wife?”

“Nah. Old girlfriend.”

“I see,” she said with a smile and walked off to the bar.

I got up and followed her to the counter where I asked her for the tab. She wrote it quickly up and slipped the check to me. From my pocket, I pulled several bills and dropped them on the hardwood counter.

“What are you doing later tonight?” I asked her as she collected the money.

Catherine tilted her head. “Going home to my husband.”

Wednesday, April 14 th 1117 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

I tapped the pen on my notepad. It was filled with scribbled lines and question marks. I kept staring at the words, waiting for that magic moment when inspiration would leap off the page.

So many dead ends, so early in the case. Fawn Taylor was a poor little rich girl who had ran away from home because her parents had a few rules and they had the guts to stick to them.

No useful forensic evidence whatsoever. The crime scene may have been next to a dumpster, but it was clean of any meaningful evidence. All I got from the M.E. was that she was strangled to death and appeared to be sexually assaulted. No word back on the workup of her clothing.

I reached for the coffee cup and took a sip. The cup was three-quarters full, but the coffee inside was cold. I put it down with disgust.

Usually, after the physical evidence, it was the victimology that helped the most. But in this case, even that wasn’t very helpful.

Who was she? A fourteen-year-old runaway whose parents live in a small mansion.

What did she do? No idea. Once she took off from home, she was no longer a student. What did she do for those two weeks after she ran away?

Who did she know? Her parents, who gave me no indication of being involved. Her friends, all of whom turned out to be little prom princesses in the making. None had any idea where Fawn had been spending her time once she ran away.

Essentially, Fawn Taylor was a ghost for the last two weeks before her murder. My canvass of the East Sprague strip came up empty. No one knew a thing. Big surprise there.

And now I had another ghost to deal with. At least with this latest one, I could hope for an AFIS hit on her fingerprints to give me a jumping off point.

“My Lord, Tower,” Ray Browning boomed from the other side of the cubicle wall. “You’re tapping your pen so hard that it sounds like road construction over there.”

“Sorry.”

Browning peeked around the cubicle, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. I didn’t have to ask what kind it was. Even if I couldn’t smell it, I’d have known. Every day, for the last twenty years, he eats a tuna sandwich for lunch. Mustard, no mayo.

“Case giving you problems?” he asked, taking a bite of his foul concoction and chewing.

I shrugged. “Running low on places to go with it.”

“Little rich girl have a boyfriend from the wrong side of the tracks?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Diary?”

“Typical teenager crap.”

“Parents?”

“Mom and step-dad.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Step-dad? That sounds promising.”

I knew what he was thinking and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Any signs of it?”

“Some.”

“Like?”

“Like she was an early bloomer. She was probably sexually active at thirteen. Sharp downturn in grades. Marijuana use. Hated her parents.”

Browning nodded, chewing as he listened.

“He just doesn’t seem the type,” I offered.

“What’d you get from Forensics?”

“Very little.”

“Sexual assault, right?”

“Probably.”

“So no fluids?”

I shook my head.

“Hairs?”

“Nope. But I asked Cameron to double-check.”

“I wouldn’t count on getting anything out of that,” Browning said. “He’s pretty thorough.”

“I know. But the M.E. did the comb and comparison.”

“What?” Browning’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“I dunno. But Cameron’s going to double-check the work.”

“That’ll piss off the M.E., no doubt.”

“He’s doing it off the books.”

“That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t find anything.” Brown took a deep breath and let it out. “It’d be nice to have something physical to either eliminate or link the step-dad, wouldn’t it?”

I agreed. “A lot of things would be nice. I’m batting about.037 on this one.”

“Not even good enough for the minors.”

“Not even good enough for little league.”

“Be careful,” he warned with a grin. “Crawford’ll send you back to patrol. Take your detective’s shield away from you.”

“At this point, he’d be doing me a favor.”

Browning chuckled as he tossed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed it up. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb. “Keep working it, John,” he said. “Something will break.” Then he disappeared around the corner of the cubicle.

I tossed my pen onto my desk and leaned back in my chair. I put my hands behind my head and stared down at my notepad.

“Damn,” I muttered at the squiggly lines and question marks.

I was still staring at them when the phone rang fifteen minutes later.

The antiseptic odor of the autopsy room hung in the air, though I couldn’t tell if it was drifting down the hall to Cameron’s office or if the stench was coming off of his clothing.

I ignored the smell and leaned forward.

“You’re a hundred percent sure?”

Cameron half-shrugged. “No, not a hundred percent. Say ninety-eight. The fingerprint is definitely a match. I’ll try to locate her dental records eventually to shore it up. If it becomes a sticking point, we’ll have to pull DNA from the parents.”

I looked down at the printout he’d handed me, identifying my unknown victim.

Serena Gonzalez. Nineteen years old. I had her date of birth and a flag for a misdemeanor arrest in California. That was probably where she was printed. That was it, but it was a hell of a lot more than I had before Cameron called.

“Good work, Cam.”

Cameron leaned back in his chair, holding the arm rests and tapping all of his fingers at once in a rolling rhythm.

I watched him for a moment. Then, “What?”

He let out a long breath and looked around quickly, as if anyone else could have been hiding in his tiny office. Then he leaned forward. “I don’t like it, John.”

“Like what?”

“Doing shit behind the M.E.’s back. If he finds out, I could get fired.”

“You’re civil service. They can’t fire you.”

“They can with just cause.”

I gave him a look. “You found something, didn’t you?”

Cameron looked away.

“What is it? What’d you find?”

He looked back at me. “I can’t get fired over this. I mean it. I’ve got a baby coming.” His voice raised in pitch as he spoke. “I’ve got a wife. Responsibilities.”

“I know.”

Cameron let out another long breath and motioned toward the door. “Close it.”

I stood to push the door closed.

“What did you find, Cam? What are we talking about here?”

He removed his glasses and set them on the desk. “I found hairs.”

“Where? On who?”

He held up his hands to slow me down.

“I finished going over the clothing from the Gonzalez case. I found a single hair on her shirt. At the navel or so. I’d have to put the shirt back on her to be any more exact, but definitely near the midriff.”

“What kind of hair?”

“Head hair. From a white male.”

“Can you get DNA?”

He shook his head. “Not likely. It was broken, not plucked. No mitochondria tissue.”

“The root, you mean?”

He looked at me as if he were considering chastising me for using such an unscientific term. “I can’t say for sure how the hair got there, but it’s the only piece of human or animal foreign matter I could find when I processed her clothing.”

“So, if it belongs to her killer,” I said, “then we’ve narrowed the field down to a white male which gets rid of about seven percent of the city’s population. Leaving me only ninety-three percent to wade through.”

“Forty-six,” Cameron said. “Roughly.”

“What?”

“Forty-six percent. The hair belongs to a white male. You can eliminate all non-whites and all females. That leaves forty-six percent. Roughly.”

“Forty-six percent of four hundred and eighty thousand only leaves, what? A couple hundred thousand suspects?”

Cameron smiled slightly. “Roughly.”

“Well, then I guess we’re making progress. Did you find any carpet fibers at all?”

“None. But there’s more on the hair.”

I motioned for him to continue.

“After I found the head hair on Gonzalez, I went back to the hair samples on the Taylor case. I checked over the clothing again, but didn’t find anything. But when I re-examined the pubic hairs from the combing and checked every single one, I found a foreign hair.”

I sat up straight. “From Fawn Taylor?”

“Yeah. It was broken off, too, so no mitochondria. But it was definitely an adult pubic hair belonging to a white male.”

“Same guy?”

Cameron shrugged. “No way to tell without DNA. Like you said, there’s a couple hundred thousand of them living in the area. And I don’t even know if we can get sufficient DNA material from either sample to test. The FBI has more sophisticated equipment, so I could send the samples to Quantico for analysis…”

“But…?”

“But that costs money.”

“So? It’s a murder case. The department will pay for it.”

“And it requires the M.E. to sign off.”

“So?” I asked, but I knew what he was driving at.

“So that means he’ll know I double-checked him. He’ll get pissed off. He’ll — “

I held up my hand to stop him. “You just tell him what you told me. You found the hair. Then you called me to tell me about it. I asked you to do a second pass over the clothing and samples from the Taylor case. Everyone is so serial killer happy around here, anyway, so that’ll make sense to him. Just tell him ‘that’s the way you do it here.’”

Cameron chewed his lip.

“He can’t touch you, Cam. He’s a contracted employee. You’re civil service. He can make your life less than perfect for a while. But if he steps too far, he’ll be the one in trouble, not you. And, either way, his contract will be up at some point. But you’ll still be here. Because you’re a civil service employee. Get it? When he’s gone, you don’t want look back and realize that we could have done a better job.”

“Okay,” Cameron said. “I’ll play it the way you said. He’ll probably buy it.”

I stood, said “Thanks” and left the antiseptic smell of the dead behind.

Serena Gonzalez was in the local computer system. She only had one entry and it was a month old. Patrol Officer Westboard stopped her at Sprague/Madelia for suspicion of prostitution and did a field contact report. I waded through the menus and got to his narrative. It was brief, but I read it anyway.

Subject was walking down Sprague Avenue dressed in provocative clothing. Claimed to be staying at the Palms Motel at Sprague and Ivory. Said she was walking home from the Club Tip Top, where she worked as a stripper. California driver’s license provided. No wants. Released her with a warning.

I was grateful that a patrol officer took the time to document a field contact. That five minutes of work he did a month ago probably saved me from tramping around the East Sprague corridor, showing her picture and trying to put together some idea of where she stayed and where she worked.

I needed to go to the motel and verify she still lived there prior to the murder. If she did, I’d have to execute a search warrant on her room. Then go to the Tip Top and interview people there.

I hit the Print button, sending Westboard’s field contact to the printer so I could put it in my case file.

I could do the Tip Top interviews on my own. That was no problem. But I had to update Crawford if I was going to do a search warrant and by department policy, I couldn’t execute it alone. That meant help. Which meant Lindsay.

I backed out of the Field Contact menu and went to the Main Menu. I typed in Gonzalez’s name and date of birth and sent it to California Department of Licensing. Less than three seconds later, the computer beeped at me. I pulled up the response. There were seven listings for a Serena Gonzalez, but the one with the matching date of birth was on top and highlighted. I selected it.

Serena Gonzalez showed an address in Salinas, California. I had no idea where that was, but there was an atlas at the reference desk. Her license had been issued three years ago. That would’ve been her first license, I realized. And her last.

So now I had to locate Salinas and give their Police Department a call. Something else I could do on my own. And not as pressing as the motel room search warrant.

It was time to see the Crawfish.

“I’ll give you Lindsay and Billings to help out with the search warrant,” Crawford said. “Let me know what you get at the motel,” he told me. He glanced down at his watch, signaling that our meeting was over.

I left his office and the major crimes unit. I found Billings at this desk in Southside General Investigative Division. He was three bites into a sandwich bulging with mayonnaise.

“Where’s Lindsay?”

He motioned to his right with his head. I glanced over and saw Lindsay standing next to the secretary’s desk. He was leaning over and laughing with her. She was about forty and frumpy and appeared to be enjoying the attention.

I called Lindsay’s name and he turned around. When he saw me, he got a look on his face like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I waved him over. He about fell down as he scurried toward us.

“What’s up, Tower?”

“I might have to do up a search warrant and I need some help.”

“Great! Let’s do it.” He slapped Billings on a fat shoulder and Billings gave him a dirty look. Lindsay didn’t notice. “Where’s it at?”

I gave them the details.

“Classy place,” Lindsay joked.

Billings finished his sandwich and opened a plastic baggie full of potato chips.

“You think she was a hooker?” Lindsay asked.

“Not sure. But I’ll head out there and find out if it’s even a good location for her. For all we know, she gave the patrol officer a bad address. Or she could have moved. Or the motel might’ve cleaned her out already.”

Billings nodded. “One can only hope,” he said through the crunching of his chips.

“Yeah, well, I’ll check it out and give you a call. If the room is a good scene, I’ll need you two to sit on it while I write the warrant.”

Billings crunched another chip. “It’d be a thrill.”

Lindsay picked up on his sarcasm and decided to play along. “You sure two of us are enough?”

I didn’t reply, but only smiled tightly and left.

“Serena Gonzalez? Yeah, she rents number eight.”

The desk clerk was in her fifties and looked every day of it. Her hawk-like face held a constant suspicion. It was in her voice, too. I’d heard it when she asked if she could help me and then again when she demanded to see my badge twice.

“When did she start renting here?” I asked her.

She narrowed her eyes. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“No, she didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Cause she’s a good renter. And that’s a rarity around here.”

The room stunk of stale cigarette smoke. The lines around the woman’s mouth told me that she was the culprit. I glanced at her nametag and read it.

“Peggy, are you the owner?”

She snorted. “Hardly. I’m just the manager.”

“Do you always work day shift?” I asked.

“Why you asking?”

“I’m wondering if there’s a night manager. I’d want to talk to him, too.”

She reached toward the counter and her pack of cigarettes. As she picked up the pack, she glanced back at me. I thought for a moment that she was going to ask if I minded that she smoke, but she had no such inhibition. She looked me up and down as she lit up her cigarette and tossed her lighter back onto the counter.

She took a deep drag and let it out. “Mister Detective, I’m the day manager and the night manager. The owner of this place lives in Portland, Oregon and has only been here once. He gives me my own room for free and eight hundred bucks a month. His beady-eyed little accountant comes by once a month to check the books and since they’re just fine, I never hear from him.”

The smoke hung in the air between us.

She took another drag and finished her speech. “So if there’s something going on with one of my tenants, I think you better just come right out and tell me.”

“Peggy,” I told her, “your tenant was murdered two days ago.”

Peggy was more helpful after that. She confirmed Serena was still a tenant and was paid up until the coming Friday. I called Lindsay and had him start out to the motel so I could go write the search warrant. Then I called Glenda and told her some of the details so she could at least get the beginnings of the warrant started. I sat in the hard chair of the small motel lobby making notes for the search warrant.

Peggy watched me while I made notes, suspicion still etched in her face. When Billings and Lindsay finally arrived, I didn’t feel guilty at all about leaving them there. The three of them deserved one another. I sped back to the station and dictated directly to Glenda, who typed faster than I could talk. After a quick proofread and then an agonizing three minutes while Crawford looked it over and signed his approval, I hustled over to the courthouse and caught Judge Thompson still in his office. He was about to leave, but didn’t make a fuss about it. He read the warrant carefully, and then signed it without a single question.

“Good luck, detective,” he told me as he handed the search warrant across his desk.

Ten minutes later, I stood outside of room number eight of the Palms Motel. Lindsay was on the other side of the doorway, his gun drawn and at his side. Billings stood several feet behind, looking bored. Peggy, her suspicion now outweighed by curiosity, waited several doors down, watching us intently.

I considered doing a knock and announce, which was required by law. But Peggy said that Serena never had any visitors and no one else was on the room registration. The odds of surprising anyone inside were slim.

Lindsay noticed my hesitation. “You want me to announce?”

“No.” I slipped the key into the door. Then I drew my pistol and swung the door open.

The room was empty. The only place I couldn’t see was in the bathroom.

“Police!” Lindsay called into the room. “Search warrant!”

I made entry and went straight to the bathroom. It was empty, too. “Clear.”

Lindsay holstered his gun and stepped through the doorway.

I held up my hands. “Stop.”

He stopped in mid-step. “Huh?”

“I said stop. Go down to the car and grab some paper bags. Get six of each size. Have Billings maintain the crime scene there at the door.”

Lindsay’s face fell. “I thought you might want help processing the scene.”

“You are going to help me with the search. I just want to be orderly about it.” I motioned to the empty table next to the window. “We’ll use this as an evidence table.”

Lindsay nodded, then turned around and nearly ran from the room.

I suppressed a sigh and turned to the motel room.

Serena Gonzalez was a neat and simple woman, I quickly learned. She folded her clothes and kept them in the drawers. Her empty suitcase was in the closet. She had typical toiletries in the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I found her room key on the nightstand next to the bed. She must have forgotten it that night, I figured.

Lindsay followed me around the room with an armful of bags. I was grateful that he didn’t ask any more questions. Once it became clear that Serena Gonzalez did not have a lot of possessions to go through, I set him to work collecting her clothing and bagging it up. Since there was no next of kin to claim her belongings, we’d have to secure it at police property.

I couldn’t find a purse anywhere in the motel room. I remembered that she hadn’t had one with her when her body was discovered, either. That bothered me. I wondered if the killer kept it. Or if robbery was the motive. Maybe it started out as a robbery and devolved into an assault. Then a rape. Then murder. Sometimes things get out of hand and it happens that way.

In the drawer beside the bed, I found a postcard. On the front was a picture of the clock tower in Riverfront Park with the city slogan. River City. Near nature. Near perfect. I flipped it over and saw the beginnings of a letter in feminine hand.

Queridisima Prima, the letter began. ?Como estas? I got a good job here, working at the grocery store. It pays well and because I speak Spanish they said they might make me a manager.

That was all she had written. I wondered if it were true for a moment, that she had started work at a grocery store, but guessed it was a lie. Who writes home and tells the ugly truth? The postcard wasn’t addressed, so that was no help.

I slipped the postcard into a small paper bag and initialed the bag near the top.

The bottom drawer of the nightstand was empty, except for the standby Gideon Bible. I almost closed the drawer, but then I noticed something. Reaching inside, I pulled out the Bible and examined it. There were two bookmarks. I opened to the first one. It was in Psalms. None of the chapters or verses were marked in any way. I flipped to the second bookmark. It was in the book of Matthew. Once again, no marked passages.

I made an X on both book marked pages, in case the bookmarks fell out and slid the Bible into an evidence bag. Wandering over to the door, I glanced outside to see where Billings was. He wasn’t at the door. I looked down at their car and saw him seated in the driver’s seat, reading a paperback. I shook my head in disgust.

“What’s wrong?” Lindsay asked. He held a bag full of toiletries and was initialing the top.

I thumbed toward Billings. “Your partner’s a lot of help.”

Lindsay stepped over and looked outside. His face showed no surprise. When he looked back at me, he said, “He’s, uh…he’s about ready to retire.”

“Ready? I’d say he already has and the paperwork just hasn’t caught up to him yet.”

“He works his cases,” Lindsay said weakly.

I gave him a knowing look. “I’ll bet he does. I’ll bet he works the hell out of them.”

“His clearance rate — “

“Let me guess. His clearance rate is satisfactory. Which means he works just enough cases to keep Crawford off his back and suspends the rest because he’s just too busy.”

Lindsay didn’t answer. I could see he was torn between defending his partner and admitting the truth. I had to wonder how much slack he was picking up for Billings, but I didn’t ask him.

There was a silence. Then I asked, “Would you and Billings mind helping me put this stuff on the books? It’ll go faster.”

He waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it. Go on home.”

I wished I could. But I had at least one more job to do tonight.

“Thanks, Lindsay.” I told him.

“Sure.”

We packed the bags down to their car and loaded them into the trunk. Billings didn’t look too pleased about the prospect of checking in the items at property.

I gave Peggy the key to the room and told her we were finished. She took the key from me without a word.

Lindsay and Billings drove off and I started my car. The phone booted up and I dialed. Three rings and Teri answered. Our conversation was short and she said staying with Ben was no problem. We said our goodbyes and I hung up.

The streetlights were coming on as I pulled out onto Sprague and headed east toward the Club Tip Top.

Wednesday, April 14 th Natalia Romanov’s House, Early Afternoon

VIRGIL

After I knocked, I could hear footsteps run to the door. The heavy wood door swung open and a young, dark-haired girl stood in the doorway. She wore tight black shorts and a black sports bra over barely forming breasts. Sweat was on her forehead and I could hear a workout program on the television in the front room.

“Natalia?” I asked.

She eyed me with suspicion.

“I need to ask you some questions about Fawn Taylor.”

Her eyes softened.

“You’re Natalia?”

“Yeah,” she said with the barest of accents. It was probably a learned trait from other household members and she’d lose it completely by the time she was an adult.

“Can I come in and talk with you?”

She shook her head. “No one’s allowed to come inside when my parents aren’t here.”

“Can we sit on the front steps then?”

She thought about it for a moment before stepping out of the house and pulling the door shut behind her. We both sat down on the concrete steps that led to her front porch. The taxi that I took to meet Natalia waited down the block, its engine running along with the fare meter.

Natalia looked me up and down, no doubt taking in the black pants, tan polo shirt and black jacket. “Are you a cop? Because I’ve already talked to the cops.”

“I’m not the police.”

“Then who are you?”

I shrugged. “I’m like a detective. Sort of.”

Her face brightened. “Ah,” she said with a big smile. “You’re a private detective, like in the movies.”

I smiled. “Something like that. You said the police came to see you?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like the one who came,” she said with a shake of her head. “He was mean to me.”

“Mean?”

“Yeah, I don’t think he liked me because I’m Russian. He asked about Fawn. He tried to pretend he was my friend, Fawn’s friend, but I didn’t believe it. He kept looking around my house as he talked.”

I stared at her for a moment, not knowing what to say to that.

“Are you going to find who killed Fawn?” she asked, breaking the silence.

”Yes.”

She stared at me waiting for my questions.

“Natalia, did Fawn use drugs?”

She lowered her head and stared at her white Reeboks.

“I know she was using something. I just don’t know what it was.”

She nodded without looking at me. “We use to smoke a little chronic together.”

I rubbed my hands together. “I’m not talking weed. I’m talking something harder. Something that would make her run away.”

“We went to a party with a bunch of guys we met at the mall. Fawn was really hot for this guy named Malcolm. At the party Malcolm asks us if we want to get high. We both said yeah. That’s when Malcolm took out a glass pipe.”

“Crack?”

“Yeah, I thought he was talking about smoking some dope when he said get high. So did Fawn. But when I saw it was something else, I didn’t want any part of it. I tried to make Fawn leave with me, but she wouldn’t. She really liked Malcolm and wanted to impress him. She told me she was going to stay and I left her. I ended up calling my brother to come pick me up and bring me home.”

“Did Fawn say what happened?”

“She said she got high with Malcolm and they had sex. She said he wasn’t very good at it, though.” Natalia smiled at the thought.

I rubbed my hands over my face. “Did Fawn have sex before Malcolm?”

Natalia glanced at me sideways. “We all have. Boys don’t want no girl who won’t hook up. If you don’t put out, you don’t go out. It’s as simple as that. That’s the rules.”

A tricked-out Honda sped by, its stereo pumping out bass and its exhaust system revealing the car had an after-market muffler.

“How old is Malcolm?”

Natalia leaned back on her elbows, pushing her small breasts outward. “Nineteen.”

“Nineteen? Why would Fawn hang out with someone that old?”

Natalia shook her head at me. “Because he’s hot. Because he’s got a job. Because he’s got a car.”

“Where’s he work?”

She sat up and rubbed her arms. “At the Denny’s on Sprague. He washes dishes and stuff.”

“You know where he lives?”

She shook her head.

“What’s he look like?”

“He’s tall and skinny. Sometimes he wears his hair in cornrows. Sometimes it’s picked out in an afro.”

“He’s black?”

“Oh, yeah. Fawn likes black guys. Me, I can go either way, but she really dug it.”

“Did you tell this to the cop who came and talked with you?”

“No way. He never asked about a boyfriend and I probably wouldn’t have told him anyway. You’re not going to tell Fawn’s mom are you? That would kill her.”

My mouth was dry. “Why didn’t she tell her mom about Malcolm?”

Natalia looked at me like I was stupid. “Because he’s nineteen. Because he’s black. Because she was sleeping with him.”

I stood up and walked off without saying a word.

“Are we done?” she called after me.

When I didn’t answer, I heard her say, “Asshole.” Then the door slammed behind me.

We were headed down to a Denny’s on Sprague when the driver finally spoke. “I’m pretty sure I know which one you’re looking for. It’s near the Home Depot and the Costco.”

I stared out the window as neighborhoods passed by.

“I can recommend a couple of better places to eat than the Denny’s,” the driver said. He was balding, fat and breathed heavily as he drove.

The cab hit a pothole and bounced me into the middle of the back seat. I pushed myself upright behind the passenger seat and fastened my seat belt.

“Sorry about that. Damn city never repairs their pot holes.”

When I didn’t answer him, he reminded me about his offer. “Like I said, I know a couple of better places to eat.”

My eyes shut tight as I tried to block out his babbling. He must have gotten the hint because he became very quiet. Several minutes later we pulled up to a Denny’s on Sprague near Edward Road. I paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi.

“Want me to wait for you? I’ll click the meter off until you’re ready.”

I shook my head and turned away, not waiting for an answer.

Inside the Denny’s, a wrinkled waitress with sagging breasts and a wide ass showed me to a small booth. When I realized I couldn’t see the kitchen, I told her I wanted a different booth and pointed out my choice. She crinkled her nose at me. “Makes me no never mind. Something to drink?”

“Coffee.”

She brought a clean cup and filled it. She laid a menu in front of me. “I’ll be back for your order.”

I nodded and scanned the restaurant. Several elderly couples occupied the booths around me and a couple of single men sat at the bar eating their breakfasts. Older waitresses hurried about, helping out their customers..

The door to the kitchen opened and a black kid walked out carrying a large grey tub. He loped over to a table and cleared it of dirty dishes and glasses. His hair was in cornrows and he had the gaunt look of someone who had seen too many long nights dancing with crack. How he managed to continue working surprised me, but by the way he looked I imagined he’d probably quit any day.

He walked by me on his way to another dirty table.

“Hey,” I said to him and held out a fifty.

The kid stopped and eyed the green in my hand. “Yeah?”

“Are you Malcolm?”

“Nope,” he said flatly but never took his eyes off of the cash.

I waved the bill in my hand. “I need to ask Malcolm a question.”

He looked around the restaurant. “Go ahead and ask.”

I shook my head and folded the bill in my hand. “Not here. Out back.”

“What’s the question?”

“Out back,” I said and got up from the table. I passed Malcolm on my way to the cashier. I dropped three bucks in front of the clerk. “I just had coffee. That should cover it and the tip.”

She nodded and took the cash.

Out back, I had just lit a cigarette when Malcolm came out. “Can I have one of those,” he asked with a motion towards my smoke. I gave him one and lit with my lighter.

“Where’s the money?”

I pulled the fifty out of my pocket and slipped it under the lip of the dumpster next to us. “You get it when you give me an answer.”

“Then ask your question.”

“Why was Fawn Taylor down on Sprague?”

His eyes widened and he stopped midway through an inhale on his cigarette. The smoke came out in bursts as he coughed. “You five-oh?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m looking into her death as an interested party.”

“Interested party? What’s that mean?”

“It means I want to know why she was down there.”

Malcolm looked over at the cash that hung from the dumpster. “She was workin’.”

“You mean hookin’?”

“Same thing, gee.”

“Why was she workin’?”

“Girl didn’t have no cash. Couldn’t steal any from her parents. Them folks never left shit lying around.”

“Why’d she need cash?”

Malcolm looked at me. “That’s more than fifty dollars worth of questions.”

“I’ll double it then. Why’d she need cash?”

“She needed more of that cookie-cookie crack than she could afford.”

“You got her smokin’ it?”

“I didn’t make the girl do nothing she didn’t want to do.”

“Who was she working for?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I dunno. She was independent.”

“No one’s independent.”

The kid laughed at me. “Listen, this is how it worked. I hooked her up with my dealer. She wanted some of the juice but he wouldn’t give it to her for free. So she let him fuck her for a hit. He told her if she wanted more to go and earn it on Sprague. That bitch sure could fuck for a girl her age.”

“You knew she was fourteen?”

“Yeah, I did. She knew what she wanted. I just helped her find it.”

“What did she want?”

“Black dick and good times.”

I pounced on him, forcing him into the building. When the back of his head hit the concrete wall, the cigarette fell from his mouth. I punched him hard in the gut and doubled him up. My hand grabbed his face and slammed his head again into the wall. I smashed him three times in to the wall and let him drop to the asphalt. He lay on the ground, moaning softly.

As I walked away I tucked my shirt into my pants and straightened my jacket. I shook free another Camel and lit it. I wandered through the parking lot of the Home Depot and entered the store.

An hour later, I climbed into a clean River City Taxi and told the driver I needed to go back to the Davenport hotel. He was a young, white kid in a pressed white shirt with a black tie. His spiky blonde hair and diamond stud earring clashed with the business attire but his attitude was professional none-the-less.

“Yes, sir,” he said when I told him my destination. “I’ll have you there in a few minutes.”

We were traveling westbound on Sprague behind a thick patch of traffic. The kid remained quiet except to ask me if I had a preference on a music station. When I told him I didn’t he turned off the radio. We rode in silence for a couple of miles when I saw it. Near Freya Street, the thing that nagged at me earlier when I was on Sprague finally worked its way into my consciousness. On one side of the street, an older white woman walked down the street in high heels and a short skirt. Across the street, a large black man walked at the same pace, his eyes always on her. His walking cane was for show and bounced lightly off the ground as he strolled.

“Do me a favor and stop the car.”

The driver looked over his shoulder at me before pulling into the parking lot of an auto detailing shop. “Sir?”

“I’m getting out here. What do I owe you?”

He rattled off an amount and I shoved some bills in his hand. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Axel.”

“Well, Axel, I want you to be my driver next time. If I ask for you by name, they’ll send you, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks,” I said and climbed out of the cab.

Axel radioed in to his dispatcher before pulling out of the parking lot. Across the street, a dark green Saturn pulled into a parking lot near the hooker. She walked over to the passenger window and talked to the driver for a moment before she climbed in. The car sped away from the area.

The black dude that followed her on my side of the street continued towards me. His stroll was vintage pimp and his eyes scanned the neighborhood. When he looked at me, I stared back. He stopped for a moment before strutting into a bar called The Hole.

I walked half a block and followed him into the bar.

The bar was dark and dingy. A dented brass rail ran the length of the counter behind which a fat, greasy man poured drinks. My reflection shone back at me in the large mirror that hung behind the bottles of booze. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found the pimp sitting in a back booth.

I wandered over to him and waited patiently while he finished talking to a little Asian whore who knelt by his side. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

“Now, get out there and earn me some bank,” he cooed to the girl.

“Okay, Rolo,” she said and stood up. “You waiting for me?” she asked me with a smile that revealed a tooth missing on the left side of her mouth.

I shook my head and motioned towards the big man.

The girl looked back down at Rolo who nodded back. “It’s alright.”

When the girl was gone, he turned his attention to me. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“What the fuck you want?”

“Answers.”

His tongue darted over his lips. “About what?”

“About the business.”

A smile spread across his face. “You wanna start pimpin’?”

I sat across from him.

“I didn’t say you could sit down.”

“I didn’t ask.”

The smile turned into a snarl. “Be careful who you play hard with.”

I leaned in. “I am.”

Rolo smiled again and leaned slowly back in the booth. He put his hands behind his head. “What do you wanna know?”

“Who runs prostitution in this town?”

The smile faded from Rolo’s face. “You’re a cop.”

“I already told you no.”

“You tryin’ to move in on my territory then?” Anger flashed in his eyes and his nostrils flared.

“I’m trying to figure out who a girl was working for.”

“Why?”

From the inside of my jacket, I pulled out Fawn’s picture and slid it across the table to Rolo. “Because someone killed her.”

“She’s a young one. Looks like a debutante.”

“Were you running her?”

“If I was I wouldn’t tell you,” his eyes flashed up to me. “But she wasn’t in my stable and that’s the truth. But she looks familiar. I might have seen her once or twice before.”

I swirled my finger in the air. “Is this area yours?”

“It is now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, ever since them racist motherfuckers decided to take a cut of the prostitution action.”

“Who?”

“The B.S.C. The Brotherhood of the Southern Cross.”

“They're a motorcycle gang. They don’t mess around with prostitution. Drugs, yeah, but not whores.”

“It’s part of the new world order, baby. Times are tough so the sharks are starting to eat the other sharks. They started pushing me out about a year and a half ago. They control all of the working girls from Altamont to downtown. I got the shit east of Altamont. Some other nigger is controlling the tail in downtown.”

I nodded in understanding. That’s what bugged me about the area around the Brotherhood’s club house. There were no pimps on the street. There were hookers and dealers but no pimps.

“Who’s controlling the drug trade?”

“The Brotherhood. Ain’t no shit movin’ or happenin’ in their block unless they get a piece of it. They put a couple girls in the hospital who tried to say no to their protection.” He made air quotes with his fingers when he said ‘protection.’

“They rough up the girls?”

He nodded. “Stupid cracker motherfuckers. When they gonna understand that if you damage the merchandise they can’t produce?”

“Why do the girls stay in the area then? Why not move out here to you or downtown?”

“That section of east Sprague is hot. That’s where the action has been for the past five or so years. Plus, the Brotherhood is hooking them up with cheap dope.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever the girls want. Smack, crack or crank. They got their fingers in all of the pies.”

I tapped the picture of Fawn before scooping it up. “I want you to ask around about this girl. Find out which one of the Brotherhood was running her.”

“And just why in the fuck should I do that for you?”

“Because I’ll remove your competition if you do.”

Rolo slowly moved his jaw as he thought. “How will I get in contact with you?”

“Give me your cell number and I’ll check in with you.”

Rolo stared at me for a moment and noisily sucked air through his teeth. “Alright,” he said and rattled off seven digits. I repeated the numbers to myself several times before I had it memorized.

I stood up from the booth to leave.

“I seen your type come down after these girls before.”

“My type?”

“Yeah. A daddy trying to bring his little girl home. They never go home.” His eyes didn’t brag. “I’m sorry what happened to your girl. Nobody deserves that shit.”

I stuck out my hand and he shook it. “I’ll be in touch.”

Wednesday, April 14 th 1904 hrs Club Tip Top

TOWER

The sound of music and the smell of smoke blasted into me as soon as I opened the door to the Tip Top. The speakers were tinny and struggled to pump out Joan Jett’s I Love Rock ‘n Roll. As I walked down the short corridor to the seating area, none of the six pairs of eyes seated there took the time to look over. All were glued to the small stage at the front of the large room.

I glanced up to the stage. The woman dancing there was pushing forty. Loose skin adorned her belly and the backs of her arms, but her legs were surprisingly supple. She noticed me and flashed a confident grin as she gyrated her hips to the beat. I gave her what I hoped was a professional nod.

Several patrons noticed her gaze and a few of them started eyeballing me. I’m sure they made me as a cop right away.

I ignored their attention and most turned back to the spectacle on stage as I walked toward the bar. Out of habit, I moved to the end of the counter. Bartenders guard the turf behind the bar fiercely, but George didn’t react when I slid around the corner and stood behind it and looked out over the room. The patrons seemed to have forgotten me, except for the guy with a ponytail and three days of beard in the corner. He pulled down his John Deere hat and slumped in chair, rolling up his shoulders and turning his face away from me.

Odds were, that guy had an arrest warrant.

Two stools down, a dancer sat sipping a glass of water through a small red straw. She was slender, with her black hair cut in a short bob. A deep scar ran from beneath her left eye and arced across her lips to her chin. She looked me over, and then noticed me staring at her. She flashed a weak smile and looked back down at her glass.

George finished serving a guy at the other end of the bar and took the long walk down to my end. His large frame reminded me of a Middle Ages innkeeper. His face was more worn and haggard than I remembered, but it had been a while.

“Officer, how’s it going?”

“You remember me, George?”

He cocked an eyebrow at the sound of his name. Rubbing the gray stubble on his cheek, he looked me up and down for a few moments. The song playing ended and there was a few seconds of blessed quiet. Hardly any of the patrons spoke.

“You look familiar…” he said.

“I worked patrol about twelve years ago. Used to do a walkthrough here about once a week.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I think I remember now.”

He didn’t, but that was fine. The guy had seen a lot of faces in the last twelve years.

“Back then, that little redhead was dancing here. Marsha or something?”

He smiled. I saw that one of his front teeth was broken off and the tip was blackened. “Miss Marsha Mason,” he said. “I gave her that name after my favorite movie star. Yeah, she worked here for a long time.”

Joan Jett’s Do You Wanna Touch Me began blasting out of the speaker system.

I thumbed toward the stage without looking at it. “Who’s that one?”

“Oh, that’s Patti. She’s been here eleven, twelve years now.”

“Obviously a Joan Jett fan.”

He nodded but said nothing.

“Look, George, I’m investigating a case. I need to talk to you about this girl.” I showed him Serena Gonzalez’s California driver’s license photo.

No one in the bar was looking directly at us, but I knew everyone was watching out of the corner of an eye.

George knew it, too. He looked at the picture too long before handing it back to me.

“You want some coffee, officer?”

“No, thanks. Do you know this girl?”

“Is she in some kind of trouble?” he asked.

I motioned for him to lean in close. He looked at me reluctantly for a second then leaned in a few inches. I watched his eyes while I spoke.

“George, this girl was murdered.”

His eyes flared with surprise and he leaned back suddenly. “You’re serious?”

I nodded.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. He ran his hands through his hair and when he looked back up at me, his eyes were watery. “Are you serious?” he asked me again.

“Yes. I’m trying to find her killer. I need your help.”

“Yeah, yeah. You bet. Whatever you need.”

“So you knew this girl?”

“Sure. She works here. I mean, she did.”

“What’s her name?”

George gave me a confused look. “You don’t know her name?”

“What name did she give you?”

“Serena. Hernandez or something like that.”

“Gonzalez?”

“Yeah, that was it. Her stage name was Rena.” He wiped his moist eyes and blew his nose into a light blue handkerchief. “I can’t believe she’s really gone. What happened?”

“I can’t go into that with you, George. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Oh.”

The small dancer from two stools down moved down to the stool directly across from me. “Are you all right, George? What’s wrong?”

George looked at me for permission. I nodded and watched her.

“Rena’s dead,” he told her.

Surprise registered on her face, followed quickly by tears. George handed her his handkerchief.

I turned my eyes to the stage to let them both get composed. A group of three men in their early twenties were hooting and hollering at Patti. One grabbed the hat off another’s head and tossed it onto the stage. Patti sauntered over to it and scooped it up. With surprising grace, she made a slow turn, putting her back to the group. Looking over her shoulder, she slowly bent over and placed the hat squarely on her ass. The men went wild and she worked them by dipping her knees and gyrating, keeping the hat balanced on her backside.

When I looked back at the small dancer, she had covered her face with her hands. George had his hand on her elbow and was patting it.

“It seems like you all were pretty close to her.”

“Gina here was, more than anyone. Rena was just a nice girl, that’s all. One that made you wish…” he trailed off.

“Wish what?”

“She was a nice looking girl, officer. She could bring in a good crowd. But she was so nice, I almost wished she never got mixed up in this line of work, you know?”

I wondered what Gina thought of his comment, but she didn’t react.

George was looking at me, so I answered him. “She was nice?”

“Yeah.”

Gina looked up from her hands, her face streaked with tears. “She was very sweet. She was…” Gina stopped and covered her face again. Her shoulders shuddered as she cried silently. George patted her elbow again.

“How long did she work here?” I asked.

George took a deep breath. “Oh, jeez. About a month. Six weeks, maybe?”

“Do you have her employee information in the office?”

George stopped patting Gina. “Well, not really. I mean, kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

He wiped his mouth. “These girls aren’t actually employees of the bar. They’re independent contractors, so all I have is her signature on the agreement.”

“Independent contractors? That sounds like someone who might build my deck or finish my basement.”

“It works best this way.”

“How’s it work?”

“They pay a set fee to the bar for however many hours they want to work. They get to keep all tips and fifty percent on the drinks the customers buy them.”

“Drinks? You mean the Cokes or 7-Ups that cost five bucks a piece?”

“Look, they’re paying for the company more than the drink. The drink is a timer. Buy the girl a drink and talk to her until the drink is gone.”

“Is there a hospitality room in the back?” I asked.

George shook his head. “No. Just the dancers on stage and a shared drink. Nothing else.”

When I worked patrol, there wasn’t a room in the back, either, but a number of the girls worked as call girls on the side. George always said that he’d fire a girl if he ever found out they were doing that, but I never heard of him finding out or firing anyone. Drugs were about the only reason he ever canned a dancer.

The song ended and I waited for another to start. True to form, Patti hit the Joan Jett trifecta as Bad Reputation squawked out of the speakers. The irony was lost on the patrons.

“Was Rena popular?” I asked.

“Very. If she wasn’t on stage, she was almost always occupied with a customer.”

“Any of those customers get too attached?”

George shrugged. “Who can say? She was a cut above the girls most of these guys ever get to talk to. So some of them may have gotten a little attached to her, yeah.”

“She ever see any of them outside the bar?”

“Not that she said.”

“She never did,” Gina said through her palms. She pulled her hands away from her face and wiped her tears with George’s handkerchief. “She never saw anyone from here outside of the bar. Not even the other dancers.”

“Why?”

Gina shrugged, but I knew the answer. Because she was a cut above, and everyone knew it.

“Any of these guys ever get weird about her?” I asked them both. “Follow her? Try to monopolize her time here?”

George shook his head. I looked to Gina.

She shook her head, too, but smiled through her tears. “She was popular, that’s for sure. She was always the first one to get asked for a drink. Almost always had good nights.”

“Yeah,” George said. “She was making money.”

“She always spoke with a really thick accent with the customers,” Gina said, still smiling. “You know, like Mexican or something? They ate it up. But she spoke perfect English with us. No accent at all.”

“Did she ever talk about her family?”

Gina answered, “She had a cousin she was close to. She talked about her sometimes.”

“What was her name?”

“Lucy. No, it was a little different than that. Something Spanish.”

“Lucinda?” I guessed.

“Nah, but it was something like that. Anyway, she was the only one I ever heard her talk about. I got the impression she wasn’t close with the rest of her family.”

I took out my notepad and jotted the name down and a few other facts. “Did she say where she was from?”

“Some town in California. She only just left there a couple of months ago.”

“Salinas?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Gina said. “You know a lot about her.”

“I don’t know enough yet. When did she last work here?”

George thought for a moment. “I think it was Saturday ni-”

Gina interrupted him. “No, it was Sunday. You were off. Pearl was tending bar.”

“How late?”

“She left early,” Gina said. “It was slow. It was around eight or nine when she left. I only stayed another hour myself.”

“Any customers bother her that night?”

“Unh-uh.”

“Anyone leave right after her?”

“I don’t think so. There were only two guys in here and neither one was spending any money. I was on stage when she left and they both stayed through my set. In fact, they were both still here when I left.”

The music stopped and there was a smattering of applause and some more enthusiastic hollering from Patti’s Hat Brigade. Patti blew them kisses and pranced off stage.

“Gina, you’re up,” George told her.

I expected her to argue, but she didn’t say a word. She wiped her eyes once more with the handkerchief and hopped down from the stool. Her body was slender and shapely. She gave me a sad smile, making the scar tissue on her face stretch slightly. “The show must go on, you know?”

I asked her first and last name and her date of birth. She answered quickly and I scrawled the information on my notepad. As soon as she finished with my questions, she trotted up to the stage door, passing Patti on the way out. A couple of patrons whooped at her as she entered the door to backstage.

Patti approached the bar, wiping sweat from her body with a towel. She wore a flimsy half-shirt over her breasts. Despite her lined face and her flab, she radiated confidence. She gave me a sure, seductive smile.

“I didn’t do it,” Patti said, leaning over the bar and holding her wrists out to me. “But if I did, would you handcuff me?”

“Patti,” George said sharply. He motioned to the end of the bar. “Go sit with Tim.”

Patti gave him a dirty look but obeyed. She swayed down the bar, casting a glance back over her shoulder at me.

Racing guitar music came through the speakers. I recognized the song immediately. Sweet Child O’ Mine. One of Guns ‘n Roses’ first big hits. I glanced up at the stage as Gina moved gracefully onto it. Her arms moved in rapid, arcing patterns as she stepped to the center of the stage. Her face bore a faraway look and she ignored the hoots and waving dollar bills from the small crowd.

At the end of the first verse, she launched herself into the air and grabbed onto the pole just off center stage. Just as quickly, she wrapped her legs around the pole and then froze. Her body jutted out at ninety degrees and she held that position with the still strength of a gymnast. As the second verse began, she removed her bikini top and flung it off stage.

As she moved forcefully, full of grace and strength, around the pole, onto the stage, to her feet and back to the pole, her face never changed. If anything, she looked more sorrowful.

I turned away and asked George, “When was Rena scheduled for work again after Sunday?”

George squirmed. “Well, they’re not really scheduled. Like I told you, they’re independent — “

“Don’t bullshit me, George.” I kept my voice low. “I just want to know when she was scheduled to work again.”

George worked his tongue over his teeth behind tight lips. Then he said, “All right, well, there is sort of a loose sign-up sheet. Just to make sure there’s girls here.”

“So when was she signed up for?”

“Rena worked every night,” he told me.

“Every night?”

“Yeah. She only missed one or two days the whole time she was here.”

“Is that normal?”

George shrugged. “For some. If they’re making money, they work a lot. If they’re not making money, they work a lot so they can try to make money.”

“What’d you think when she didn’t show up for work Monday?”

“Nothing. I figured she took the day off.”

“You didn’t hear about the murdered girl we found over on Erie early Monday morning?”

George blanched. “Oh, shit. That was her?”

I nodded. “What about Tuesday? Or tonight? What’d you think when she didn’t show up?”

“To be honest, I was starting to think she’d quit.”

“Quit?”

He nodded. “Yeah. All of us knew she could be making more money if she went to work out at Showgirls. I just figured she decided to go there.”

“She ever talk about that?”

“No, but I lose girls to that place quite a bit. Once they figure things out.” He didn’t have to explain the rest. He meant once they figured out where the Tip Top girls were on the pecking order and where the bigger bucks could be had.

I gave George my card. “Call me if you or anyone else thinks of anything or hears anything that might help.”

“Okay.”

“I mean anything that might help.”

“Got it. I will.”

Wednesday, April 14th East Sprague Bus Stop, Evening

VIRGIL

I’d been watching the action on East Sprague for a couple of hours when a maroon, unmarked patrol car pulled up in front of the Club Tip Top. I was sitting at a bus stop across from the bar, waiting for a ride that I would never catch.

A plain-clothes cop stepped out of the car and glanced up and down Sprague. He looked like a detective. An arrogant fucking detective with a sport coat that bulged under his left armpit. Shoulder rigs are designed for cross draws so the guy was right-handed.

He strutted around his car, shook his head at a clucker asking for a handout and yanked open the door to the bar. When the door closed, he disappeared from view. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

The human aquarium that is Sprague Avenue continued to thrive even without a functioning filter system. The sharks swam up and down the street, into doorways and alleys before popping out in other areas. The feeder fish meandered around, begging or soliciting, all with the same purpose in mind. I kept waiting for a Great White to show, but none of the Brotherhood popped out of their clubhouse and no one went in.

A large bus with the words Sprague Avenue / Downtown scrolling by on a reader board above the driver’s head pulled up to the curb in front of me. The door hissed open in front of me.

“Getting on?” the big woman behind the wheel asked.

I shook my head.

The bus wheezed as it pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the road.

I tossed my cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with my shoe. A light wind blew across my neck and I flipped up the collar of my jacket. I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned back against the bench.

Twenty minutes later, the detective left the bar, climbed back into his car and pulled away from the curb. I stood and started the walk back into downtown.

As I passed the La Playa motel, which sat next to the BSC clubhouse, I suddenly stopped and looked around. Across the street, the Palms Motel squatted unceremoniously.

I trotted across the street and walked into the Manager’s office of the Palms Motel. No one was in the room so I slapped the small metal bell on the counter.

A door opened to a back room and a haggard looking woman in her fifties ambled out. Her grey hair was a mess and she wore a pink night coat with a large feather fringe. The belt barely kept the coat closed over her belly.

“What can I do for you?” she rasped.

“I want to rent a room.”

She eyed me suspiciously.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What?” I repeated.

“You don’t look the type to get a room down here. You a cop or something?”

“No.”

“That’s good. I’ve had my fill of cops this week.”

“What do you mean?”

“A detective came in here and gave me the third degree about one of my tenants. She was found dead someplace else but he wanted to search her room. He was an asshole.”

“You ever meet a cop that wasn’t an asshole?”

She smiled at me. “Room’s thirty-nine bucks a night and I’ll need some ID.”

“How much is it without ID?”

“Seventy-five a night.”

I pulled out my money clip. “I want to pay for two weeks in advance.”

She pulled out a map of the small hotel. “How about a room here?” she asked and pointed at the map. The room sat directly behind the manager’s office on the first floor. The line of sight for the BSC clubhouse would be nonexistent.

I pointed at the map. “How about over here? And on the second floor.”

She shrugged and turned to her occupancy board. “I got one up there for you,” and she lifted the key.

“It’s not the dead girl’s room, is it?”

“I haven’t gotten that one cleaned up yet. You want it?”

”No.”

She handed me the key for room 204.

The door to the room that the manager walked out from earlier opened up and an older black man peered out. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. The woman peered over her shoulder at him.

“You comin’ back, Peggy?”

“I’m workin’ here.”

He shrugged his shoulders and quietly closed the door.

“Sorry about that,” Peggy muttered and scribbled some notes into a ledger. She slapped some keys on a calculator and gave me the total for the room.

I peeled a number of bills from the money clip and laid them on the counter.

With the key in hand, I left the manager’s office and continued walking back downtown to the Davenport.

Thursday, April 15th 2312 hrs 507 West Corbin

TOWER

The house was silent when I slipped in through the kitchen door. The kitchen was clean as usual. The smell of popcorn hung in the air.

I shed equipment as I walked slowly down the hall. The weight of the handcuffs came off my waist but did little to lighten my step. I shrugged my shoulder rig off my shoulders.

I moved into my bedroom and dumped my gear on top of my dresser. Then I poked my head into Ben’s room. He lay in his bed, sleeping, perfectly still. It always concerned me, how still he lay while he slept. Only his shallow breath moved the blankets slightly.

After the collision, I used to wonder if Ben had always slept so stilly. The only other person who might have known was my sister. She wasn’t around to answer that question.

I closed his door and started toward my own bedroom, then paused. Directly across from Ben’s room was the spare room. The door was partially open. I swung the door open slowly, wincing when it gave a small creak.

Teri lay on her back in the small twin bed. Her hair was fanned out on the pillow. The blankets came to her waist and I could see her turquoise nightgown. She was breathing deeply and I felt a tinge of shame as I watched her. Asleep, she didn’t press her lips together so tightly. They pouted like a 1940s movie star.

Teri moaned softly and rolled onto her side, facing the door. I took in the curve of her body under the blanket, beginning at her feet and following it up her legs, over her hips, to her bare shoulders and to her face. When I reached her eyes, I saw her looking back at me.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

“I just got here,” I half-whispered. “I tried to be quiet. Sorry if I woke you.”

“S’alright,” she murmured. “You check on Ben?”

“Yeah. He’s sound asleep.”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Never moves when he sleeps.” She snuggled down into her pillow. “Everything okay?” she asked sleepily.

“Yeah,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmm-kay.” She closed her eyes. “’Night, John.”

“Goodnight,” I said and pulled the door closed. I stood and stared at that closed door for several moments before turning and trudging toward my bedroom. I knew that sleep would evade me again.

Thursday, April 15th Lazy J Diner, Morning

VIRGIL

A jagged headache pushed inward from the temples, making me uncomfortable and angry as I wandered along Sprague in the early morning sun. The newspaper predicted it would be abnormally warm for the day. At nine o’clock in the morning, I was already roasting in my jacket with beads of sweat rolling down my back underneath my shirt.

Sprague Avenue was pretty quiet at that time of the morning. The locals were still sleeping off their highs from the previous night and the few honest business folks in the area were tucked quietly away inside their shops. The gnawing headache convinced me that I needed something to eat and a caffeine injection.

I stopped at the Lazy J diner. An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was finishing up when I walked in for breakfast. One of the female members collected their sign from the front entrance, flashing an embarrassed smile when she walked by me.

The smell of bacon grease and burnt coffee wafted around the room, over-powering the obligatory cigarette smoke that accompanies any recovering alcoholics meeting. I grabbed a table near the window and sat facing out at the activity on the street.

A white-haired waitress slowly ambled over to me. Her brown skirt fell below her knees, allowing the varicose veins in her thick, lower legs to show. The scuffed nurses shoes she wore looked several months past comfortable. Her orange nametag read Laverne.

“Morning,” she said with a slight southern drawl.

I nodded back at her and pulled out a pack of Camels.

“Something to drink?” she asked and laid a plastic menu on the table in front of me.

I lit up a cigarette and drew a deep inhale. “Coffee.”

Laverne had large crow’s feet with deep crevices near her eyes. Her dark eye shadow made her appear tired and haunted. “Need a moment to look at the menu?”

“Two eggs, bacon and an English muffin.”

“How do you want those eggs?”

“Sunnyside up.”

Laverne nodded and wandered off to the kitchen.

I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and massaged my temples, hoping to ease the headache.

From inside my jacket I pulled out Fawn’s picture and the article that Andie had sent me on her murder. I unfolded the article on the table and reread it.

GIRL FOUND MURDERED BEHIND BINGO HALL

Early morning discovery shocks neighborhood

A young woman was found murdered behind a dumpster in the parking lot of the Farmer’s Bingo Parlor in east River City. Her body was discovered by a patron leaving after an evening of Bingo.

The victim’s name was not released pending notification of the family. She was described as white and in her early teens. No further information regarding her description was released.

Vivian Marsh, the patron who discovered the body, was still shaken after finding the girl. “No one, especially a little girl like that, deserves to get herself killed that way,” said the sixty-seven year old grandmother. Marsh immediately notified the Bingo Parlor management, who called the police. Patrol units responded quickly.

The case was assigned to River City Police Detective John Tower of the Major Crimes unit. When asked if the murder was sexually motivated, Detective Tower responded, “We’ll have to wait for the forensic tests to come back before we can make that determination.”

No immediate suspects have been developed, but the police department’s Crime Analysis unit will begin compiling suspects who match certain criteria. “Once the evidence is collected, and that includes interviews of potential witnesses, Crime Analysis will input that data into the system and pull out individuals of interest. It’s a slow process sometimes, but we’ve got to make sure we don’t overlook anything,” said Detective Tower.

Anyone with information regarding this homicide is requested to contact the River City Police Department at (509) 555-4100.

“Is that your daughter?” Laverne asked when she brought my breakfast.

I glanced up at her and covered the article with my hand. “Yes. Did she ever come in here?”

Laverne put my plate down with a clatter and stared at the picture for a minute. “She doesn’t look familiar. Do you guys live around here?”

“No. She was hanging out down here.”

Laverne’s face softened and she glanced outside to Sprague Avenue. When she looked back to me, she nodded silently and walked back into the kitchen.

I folded the article around Fawn’s picture and tucked it back into my coat.

After breakfast I wandered back out to Sprague where traffic, both human and vehicle, was starting to pick up. I closed my eyes and lifted my head to the morning sun, feeling its warmth on my face. I pulled out a Camel and lit it.

“Got a smoke, man?”

I turned around to see a young black kid with a serious case of the shakes. His eyes looked older, but I guessed him to be about fifteen years old.

I shook a cigarette free for him. He reached out with a shaky hand and plucked it from the pack.

“Suck your dick?” he asked, lifting the cigarette to his lips.

“What?”

“Suck your dick?”

“Get away from me.”

“C’mon, man, I’m jus’ tryin’ to make a livin’.”

I stepped towards him, ready to inflict the reality of the situation on him, when a loud voice boomed, “Dookie!”

The black kid spun around and looked back up the street at Rolo, the pimp I’d met in The Hole.

“Get your black ass back over here.”

I looked up the street at the pimp and gave a small wave. He ignored my sentiment and slapped Dookie hard across the face when he was in range. East Sprague’s version of tough love, I guess.

The normal players were scarce in the morning, usually spending their mornings hung-over or in a cell block. By coming down early in the morning, I hoped to get a different feel for Sprague Avenue. Down near the ACME TV, a leggy blonde stood next to a bus stop sign, smoking a cigarette and watching the passing traffic with intent eyes.

The girl wore a dirty, red flannel shirt over even dirtier blue jeans. The shirt was open and Mickey Mouse’s face peered out from a faded t-shirt. Her long blond hair was stringy and a month or two had passed since its last bleaching.

A patrol car cruised slowly down the street as the whore leered at it. The female police officer behind the wheel never looked in her direction. The hooker was smarter than I had given her credit for. She stood near the bus stop, acting like she was waiting for a bus.

I lit a cigarette and headed in her direction, hoping to show Fawn’s picture.

A shiny, black Mercedes pulled up next to the curb and the leggy blonde clicked over to the car. The passenger window rolled down and she leaned into it. The windows on the car were tinted, but the interior was light enough that I could see an older white male behind the wheel. I stopped in the doorway of an antique toy store and watched. It took only a few seconds of negotiation before she nodded her head and stood up from the car. She spun around deftly on her high heels and clicked off around the corner with the car following her.

I took a deep inhale on the Camel and dropped it to the sidewalk. As I got close to the alley’s entrance, a patrol car came around the far corner with its engine gunning. The car whipped into the alley in front of me.

A young black officer was behind the wheel while an older, graying officer was in the passenger seat. They stopped behind the Mercedes and activated their emergency lights. The Mercedes was rocking slightly side to side. I could see the head of the driver, but the prostitute’s head was out of view.

The black officer jumped out of the car and strode quickly and confidently to the driver’s door of the Mercedes. The graying officer took his time getting out of the car and saw me standing at the alley entrance. He ignored me and sauntered up to the passenger side of the car.

“River City Police Department, sir,’ the black officer said after he smacked the top of the roof.

The hooker jumped upright in her seat. The older officer stood next to her window where she never saw him.

“Roll down your window, sir,” the young cop ordered.

A moment later the driver leaned his head partially out of his window. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

“You’re getting oral sex from a known prostitute, that’s the problem.”

“She’s not a hooker, Officer. She’s an old girlfriend.”

“What’s her name then?”

The hooker leaned over and yelled, “Toni.”

The young officer looked frustrated. “Ma’am, please sit back. I’m talking with the driver.”

“Her name’s Toni,” the driver said.

“Yeah, she told me.”

The driver pleaded, “I swear she’s an old girlfriend.”

The young officer crossed his arms and frowned. “Let me see your driver’s license and registration.”

The driver reached over to the glove box and fumbled around. Toni looked to her right and saw the older officer outside the car. She rolled down her window and said, “Why are you standing there?”

“I’m his back-up officer,” he said and watched his partner.

“Do you know Officer Hiero?”

He turned his head to her. “Hiero?”

The hooker nodded.

“Yeah, I know him.”

“I know him, too,” she said.

“He arrest you?”

She shook her head, the blonde hair flopping over her shoulder. “No, we’re friends.”

“Friends?”

She nodded again.

“I doubt it.”

Toni glanced at the black officer and then turned back to the officer standing outside her window. She leaned in and read his name tag. “Officer …. Bates, you’re not his back-up. You’re his training officer. Am I right?”

Bates ignored her and watched his partner.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Rookies arrest everybody.”

A broad smile grew on the older officer’s face. It faded when he glanced over at me. He jerked his head for me to leave the area.

“Can I get out of the car?” Toni asked.

“No.”

“But I need to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Toni whined.

Bates glanced over at me. “What the hell do you want?”

I shrugged.

“Take off.”

I glanced around, shoved my hands in my pockets and started across the street.

“I’ll tell you about the dead girl,” Toni blurted to the older officer.

I spun around and stared at them.

“What dead girl are we talking about?”

“The one in the bingo parking lot.”

Bates stared at his partner and thought for a moment. When he started to turn in my direction, I wandered off to the end of the block over on First Street. I shook a cigarette free, lit it and stood there smoking. When the cigarette was done, I changed my vantage point to make sure the police car was still there.

The rookie was stuffing Toni into the back seat of the patrol car as his training officer dropped back into the passenger seat. The rookie climbed into the car, turned off his emergency lights and backed out of the alley. The tires chirped slightly as they drove away.

Thursday, April 15 th 1019 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

“Gonzalez, huh? Lots of them down here.”

The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Salinas Police Sergeant Roger Kraemer.

“Could you run a local check on my victim, Sergeant? I got her identified off fingerprints and the flag on the hit said something about a misdemeanor arrest in California.”

“Gimme her info,” Sergeant Kraemer grunted.

I gave him her name and birth-date and could hear him typing it into his computer. He asked for the address on her driver’s license. I told him.

He stopped typing. “Her address is on Grant Road? Well, that narrows things down.”

“What do you mean?”

Kraemer coughed away from the phone receiver. “What I mean is, we got ourselves a group of Gonzalez pukes that live on Grant Road who are in trouble all the time.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Stolen property, mostly. They run chop shops once in a while, too.”

“Do you recognize Serena’s name?”

“No,” Kraemer answered. “But I wouldn’t recognize many of them..”

“How about a Lucinda?”

“Nope. Here’s the computer return on your vic, though. Serena Gonzalez. Same date of birth. She shows that address on Grant Road. One arrest at age sixteen, three years ago.”

“Prostitution?”

“Nope. Simple Theft. Victim was a store at the mall.”

“She was fingerprinted off of that?”

“I imagine that whoever popped her for the shoplift saw the last name and the address and figured that if we had a chance to get a Grant Road Gonzalez printed and pictured, we’d better do it.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m going to have Detective Ernie Williams give you a call back in a little bit. He’s in Auto Theft and Burglary right now and I think he’s been working the Gonzalez family for a while.”

“That’d be helpful. Thanks.”

He grunted and hung up.

I reached for my pen and scribbled some notes. Serena belonged to a family of criminals. My experience with people born into a family like that was that they go one of two ways. They either embrace that lifestyle wholeheartedly and join in the fun, or they reject it utterly. Either way, having the same last name is a curse of sorts. It identifies them forever with that group of criminals, which hampers a criminal career and sullies a straight one.

I paged through my case file to the autopsy photos. They were arranged chronologically, so the early pictures showed Serena in an almost peaceful repose, as if she were asleep with an unnatural stiffness. Her arms lay at her sides and the skin tone was too gray. The stab wounds on her chest and the bruising on her throat were like angry punctuation marks.

I picked up her driver’s license photo and examined it. It showed a sixteen-year-old Serena. Her thick, jet-black hair was teased up and she flashed an excited grin. There was a light in her eyes. Her face still had a slight chubbiness to it, almost as if she hadn’t shed all of her baby fat. Glancing back down at the close-up of her face on autopsy table, she was noticeably thinner, though not unhealthy. But her face held the lines and edges of a woman. The picture on the license was of a girl.

Staring at a picture of her dead, naked body, I tried to envision her alive. I thought of what George and Gina had said about her at the Tip Top. How popular she was. It was plain that she had a nice body. Even in death, her breasts were pert and her stomach flat. I imagined her flashing that same smile from her license photo to the customers at the Tip Top. Any one of them would think he’d hit the lottery. Young, built and with a killer smile. And for a five-dollar drink, she’d spent twenty minutes talking to you.

So this girl, with a criminal family, left Salinas and ended up here in River City. How long did she knock around before she ended up here? Or did she come straight to River City? Did she have friends here?

I thought about the last question. Probably not, I decided. Would she be staying at a motel for a month if she had friends in town? So chances were she came to town knowing no one.

Why? Was she running from something? Someone? Was she trying to leave her family behind? Start fresh? If so, why was she dancing at the Club Tip Top? And lying about it to her cousin?

I fished through my file and found a photocopy of the postcard. Her lie was written on the back with confidence. She wanted them to think she was making good. She was definitely trying to leave her family behind and start something new.

Matt Westboard’s field contact report said that she was a prostitute. I flipped to my copy of that report and read it again. He didn’t describe her flagging down cars or making contacts. Just walking back to her motel from the Tip Top. If she were wearing her work clothes, she’d look like a prostitute. I could see what Westboard would’ve thought. Dressed like a prostitute and walking right down the East Sprague corridor, smack in the middle of Hooker Row. After all, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…

I stood up and poked my head around the cubicle. Browning’s desk was empty. I used his phone to dial Westboard’s department voice mail and left a message for him to call me when got the chance. As I was reciting my telephone extension, I heard my own phone ring.

I hustled around the corner and grabbed it on the third ring. After four, it goes to voice-mail.

“Detective Tower.”

“Detective Tower? Detective Ernie Williams here, Salinas PD. I understand you’re investigating one of the Gonzalez girls.”

“Yeah. Serena Gonzalez. She was murdered.”

He whistled softly. “That’s too bad. She was one of the decent ones.”

“What do you know about her?” I asked.

“Let’s see. Well, she was about eighteen or nineteen. As far as I could tell, she stayed out of the family business.”

“Sergeant Kraemer said she had an arrest for shoplifting a few years ago.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that. But that was just a Simple Theft. No big deal, compared to the rest of her family.”

“I was wondering if she had a lot of contacts with police, even though they didn’t end up being arrests.”

Williams considered for a moment. Then he said, “I would guess she had a few more contacts than your average teenage girl, just because of her name and family. But I don’t remember her being in trouble much.”

“Any prostitution?”

“Huh? No, never. Why?”

“She was stripping at a bar here and living at a motel,” I told him. “Both are in our local red light district.”

“Well, the stripping part doesn’t surprise me. She was working at the Las Estrellas down here for a couple of months last year, after she turned eighteen.”

“Strip club?”

“Not really. Topless joint. Girls on stage strip off their top and wear thongs, but there’s no touching that goes on. It’s a fairly clean place.”

“The girls don’t hook out of there, then?”

“Nah. There’s better places for them to work for that.”

“How well did you know Serena?” I asked him.

“Oh, I don’t know. Okay, I guess. I spoke to her a few times on cases I worked. She was always polite, but dummied up about her family.”

“So she wasn’t part of their business, but she wouldn’t roll on them, either?”

“Exactly. Don’t get me wrong, she was no saint. I dumped out more than a couple of forty-ouncers that she and her friends were drinking. Plus, she was stripping. She just wasn’t into anything heavy, is all.”

As he spoke a uniformed patrol officer appeared at my desk. I glanced up at him. He was black. His uniform was creased sharply and his hair was shaved to a quarter inch. He smiled nervously and lifted his face to me in greeting.

I held up my hand, then showed him two fingers. He nodded and stepped a couple paces to the wall and sat down in a chair there.

“When did you see her last?” I asked Williams.

“I couldn’t tell you for sure. Her last computer entry for any contact is seven months old and that was as a witness to a fight. I know I haven’t seen her for at least four and a half or five months.”

I considered that. It sounded like she probably kicked around a bit before landing here in River City.

“Something else you should know, Detective. Her pops, Jorge, was mighty pissed at her for leaving, from what I heard.”

“Really? How pissed?”

“Very. He found out she was down in L.A. about three months ago and sent his oldest boy Javier down to get her. Apparently, she blew town first and he didn’t find her. Which just pissed Jorge off even more.”

“You think they’d hurt her, if they found her?”

“Not in a million years. Are you very familiar with the Mexican family structure?”

“Not really.”

“It’s very tight. And the girls are the jewels of the family. They’d drag her back kicking and screaming, but never hurt her.”

“How about someone else hurting her?” I asked. “She have any boyfriends? Stalkers?”

Williams laughed. “Boyfriends? Sure, lots of ‘em. At least, lots who were probably trying. But she doesn’t have any protection orders or domestic violence entries in our system here. And I never heard of anyone steady.”

“It was a long shot, anyway,” I admitted.

“How’d she die?” he asked.

I gave him the barest details.

He whistled again. “That’s a shame.”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you be able to do a courtesy interview for me down there?”

“I could, if you want. I can make notification for you, too, if you like.”

“That’d be great. I was going to call our chaplain’s service today for that.”

“No problem,” Williams said. “I’ll have our chaplain call up there to yours and get the details. Then I’ll go with him. But I have to tell you, Jorge and his boys aren’t going to tell me diddly. The most you’ll get is some very pissed off cholos up there, cruising your streets and looking for her killer.”

“I don’t want you to interview them. I want you to talk to Lucinda.”

“Lucinda?”

“I think so. Serena’s cousin.”

“You probably mean Lucia. That’s Jorge’s sister’s kid. She’s about fourteen. Why do want me to interview her?”

“I think Serena was writing to her. I found a postcard in her room addressed to her prima. That means cousin, right?”

“Yeah. Girl cousin.”

“Plus one of the girls at the bar said she didn’t talk about her family, except for her cousin Lucy or Lucinda or something. If she was writing to her, I might be able to fill in her travels before she arrived here in River City.”

“I see,” Williams said. “Yeah, I can do that. You know, Lucia’s mother is a real bruja vieja. Almost as bad as Jorge, with her Welfare scams.”

“Bruja Vieja? What’s that?”

“Old witch. Anyway, I’ll catch Lucia at school, away from her family.”

“That’d be good. Thanks.”

“No problem. Call you in a day or two.”

We hung up and I turned to the patrol officer, who was already standing at my desk.

“Romeo McLaren,” he said, sticking out his hand.

I took it and he gave a firm shake. “John Tower. What’s up?”

He nodded toward the waiting area. I poked my head around my cubicle and saw Officer Glen Bates standing next to a blonde female in handcuffs. Bates was a veteran and an FTO.

“Who’s she?”

“Toni Redding.”

I watched him for a moment, waiting for him to go on.

“She’s a hooker. She’s claiming info on a girl that was just murdered a little while ago. She’s trying to get out of a prostitution charge.”

“What does she know?”

“She wouldn’t say. She said she’d only talk to the detective on the case. We called it in and they said it was your case.”

“It is. Fawn Taylor is the girl’s name.”

McLaren shrugged. “She didn’t even say that. Do you want to talk to her?”

“Put her in an interview room.”

“Okay.”

“Leave her cuffs on. Let me take them off of her.”

He nodded and left.

I returned to my desk and scrawled out my notes from my conversation with Detective Williams. I tried not to let my mind stray to the Taylor case as I wrote, but I could feel a tickle of anticipation.

I grabbed the Taylor file and a clean pad of paper and headed to the interview room. After a few steps, I stopped and returned to my desk and found the license photo of Serena Gonzalez.

McLaren stood guard outside the door to Interview One. Bates was standing a few yards away, making notes in a steno notepad.

I gave McLaren a nod and went inside.

Toni Redding sat sideways in one of the three chairs in the small room, her thin shoulders hunched over. She adjusted her flannel shirt by reaching her handcuffed left hand around and tugging on it. She looked up at me when I entered.

“You the detective?”

I nodded and closed the door behind me. I plopped the case file down on the table, followed by the notepad and pen. The sounds echoed around the tiny room.

“Turn around,” I told her.

She understood and turned around, offering her wrists up. I unlocked the cuffs and removed them, slipping them in the small of my back.

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her wrists.

“You’re welcome.” I sat down and pushed the case file aside. I wrote her name, the date and the time at the top of the notepad. Then I looked up at her. Her long, blonde hair hung limply to her shoulders and her angular face would always be one step behind beautiful.

“The patrolmen out there think you might have some information for me.”

She nodded as she spoke. “First, I want to know something. If I give you this info, will you make those assholes out there drop this bullshit charge on me?”

“That depends on the information.”

She rubbed her upper arms with both hands. The t-shirt under her open flannel was a faded Disneyland souvenir. I looked for methamphetamine sores on her neck, but didn’t see any. Her face wasn’t broken out, either. My guess was that she was into heroin. “I might know something about Fawn, the girl they found at the bingo lot.”

“I’m listening.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the table. When she looked back up at me, she said, “Do you know Officer Paul Hiero?”

“Yes.”

“Well…he and I are…” she smiled slightly. “Friends.”

“Don’t bullshit me. Don’t even think about bringing an officer’s name into this conversation. If you do, you’ll destroy any credibility your story may have.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

“How do you know the victim’s name?”

“If I tell you about Fawn, will you drop this new charge?”

“What do you have to lose? Either you don’t tell me and you go to jail. Or you tell me and maybe you don’t go to jail. It’s not like you can take your information down to the pawn shop and get ten bucks for it.”

“You better not screw me over.”

I pushed the file aside and put the notepad in front of me. “How did you know Fawn?” I asked her.

“I met her out on Sprague.”

“Was she working?”

“Not right away.”

“But eventually?”

“Kinda,” she said. “It’s more complicated than that.”

I tapped my pen. “Okay, let’s back up to when you met her. When was that?”

“A couple of weeks before she died. Maybe three. I don’t know exactly.”

“And how did you meet her?”

“She just appeared one night down on Sprague. She was walking around, talking to people. I figured she was a new girl. You know, from out of town? Anyway, she came up to me and we just hit it off. We talked and had coffee and stuff.”

“Did you know she was fourteen?”

Toni shook her head. “No. She said she was nineteen at first, but after we talked for a while, she said she was only seventeen. I believed her. She looked about seventeen.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That she lived in Seattle and she’d run away from home.”

“She said Seattle?”

“Uh-huh.” She gave me a confused look. “That’s not true?”

“Why’d she say she ran away?”

Toni shrugged. “She didn’t really say. All she said was that her parents were assholes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. I didn’t push it, you know? Her business. ‘Sides, I know how a lot of parents are assholes. Mine were.”

“How long was she hanging out around East Sprague?”

“Right up until…until she…” Toni’s eyes teared up.

I stood up and left the room. Glenda kept a box of tissues on her desk and I grabbed several and returned to the interview room. “Here,” I said, handing her the tissues.

“Thanks,” she said. She had stopped crying, but used the tissues to wipe her eyes and nose.

“Do you know where she stayed during those two weeks?”

She nodded. “I rented a motel room for her.”

“Where?”

“The Eastside.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why? Why did you rent her a room?”

“She paid for it. I just put it in my name because she said she didn’t have ID.”

“She paid for it?”

“Yeah,” Toni said. “She had a bunch of cash for the first week or so. She rented that room and even paid for dinner at Zip’s one night for both of us.”

“How long did the money last?”

“I don’t know for sure. But after about a week or so, she got kicked out of the motel”

“What did she do when she ran out of money?”

Toni took a long breath and chewed the inside of her mouth again. “She told me that she was out of cash and needed to work. I told her it wasn’t a good idea.”

“But she was persistent.”

“Yeah, she was. Told me she was a ‘ho in school and loved sex. I didn’t know if it was just talk or not. I told her that most of what we did wasn’t sex, anyway.”

“Did you show her the ropes, then?”

She shrugged. “Sorta. I mean, I didn’t tell her to do it. I just told her what I do. What I don’t do.”

“Why’d you take her under your wing?”

“I got to know her. And I could tell that the only reason she was pissed at her parents is because they had rules. Shit, she even had a stepfather who cared about her. All my stepfathers ever did was try to fuck me.” She stopped and looked away for a second.

“Go on.”

“I told her she should go home. She said she could never ask her parents for money. That’s when I told her she should work a week or two and earn enough to take the bus back to Seattle and just put all this behind her. I told her she still had a chance at a normal life. She still had a chance for someone to love her.”

“What did she say?”

“She said okay. So we worked a few days together, then she just disappeared. I figured she listened to me and went home.”

“Without saying goodbye?”

“On the street, people leave all the time without saying goodbye.”

“What about when she turned up dead? Why didn’t you come forward then?”

“Because I didn’t know who killed her.”

“But now that you’re in a jam, your information is valuable?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did you two ever work separately?”

“Some. I tried to keep an eye on her, but some of my dates took longer than others. Plus, she got a lot of business. Fresh meat and all.”

“So she just didn’t come back from a date?”

“No. She didn’t show up one night. The night before…”

“The night she was murdered.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I got out there around eleven and she wasn’t anywhere around. I figured she probably caught a ride already. When she didn’t show up around midnight, that’s when I figured she took my advice and went back to Seattle.”

I sat and thought for a while, running over our conversation in my mind. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask her about Fawn Taylor. I removed the picture of Serena Gonzalez from my stack and put it in front of her.

“You recognize this girl?”

She looked at the picture for a few seconds, then shook her head. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

I stood up and gathered my papers. “Wait here.”

“What about my charges?” she asked.

“You’re not going to jail today,” I told her. “We’ll see about the rest.”

She was visibly relieved as I left the interview room and closed the door.

McLaren was right on me. Bates looked up from his conversation with the secretary and ambled over.

“She give you anything?” Bates asked.

“Yeah.

“All right then. What do want to do about her?”

“Give her a ride home, if she’s staying in the city. Tell her that if you see her out on East Sprague again today, she goes to jail on all of this.”

Bates looked at McLaren and jerked his head toward the interview room. I removed the cuffs from the small of my back and handed them to McLaren, who took them and went inside. While he was handcuffing Toni, Bates leaned in close to me.

“She was dropping Paul Hiero’s name really heavy,” he whispered.

“I know. She tried it in there, too.”

Bates shook his head. “Hiero better hope that asshole Hart doesn’t get wind of it over in IA.”

“He won’t be hearing it from me,” I told him.

“Me, neither. But if this bitch doesn’t shut up…”

“I know.”

McLaren walked Toni out of the interview room, so he stopped.

Toni looked directly at me. “Thanks,” was all she said.

Thursday, April 15th Victorino’s Grocery, Noon

VIRGIL

Traffic whizzed by on Sprague as I talked with Mr. Saccamano.

“Where the hell are you, Virg?”

“At a payphone in front of some meat market.”

“That’s alright. I’m calling from that little Korean laundry around the corner from the shop. Fucking phone dodge. If it weren’t for the Feds, we could talk on the damn telephone like white men.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Saccamano laughed. “Yeah, it would. It would be real goddamn nice. But enough of dream land. You makin’ any progress up there?”

“I’ve got a line on some potential players. If it doesn’t pan out by the weekend, I’ll bag it and head home.”

“Do that. I can use your help.”

“Alright, Mr. Saccamano. I’ll give you a call in a day or two.”

I dropped the receiver on to the hook and turned around. A tall blonde stood in front of me. She wore a tight red mini-skirt and black spandex top. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and her lips were painted a brilliant red which clashed with her deep green eyes. “Wanna date?” she asked with a hint of a smile.

“No, thanks.”

She shrugged and turned back to the street, watching the passing cars. Her ass was a little big for the skirt, but her legs were smooth.

“Hey,” I said.

She turned around and crossed her arms, forcing her breasts up and her nipples out against the spandex.

“How much?”

“You a cop?”

“Not even close.”

“Grab a titty then.”

Even though it was broad daylight, I reached out and tweaked the nipple on her right breast.

“That was free,” she said with a smile. “It’s forty for head, sixty straight in.”

“Sounds fair.” I glanced around, hoping to find a pimp or BSC member watching over her.

“What are you looking for?”

“A pimp.”

“You’ve done this before, sugar?”

I nodded.

“Where to?”

“I’ve got a room at the La Playa,” she said to me. “Room number seven. That’s where we’re going.”

I followed her as she wiggled down the street, her high heels clicking loudly. My eyes watched passing cars, hoping that a bored cop wouldn’t drive by.

We walked past the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross clubhouse and under their cameras. I smiled when I realized what she was doing. She just showed them who her trick was and they never had to step outside. Very slick.

She opened the door and let me step inside first. The room was plain with no personal items anywhere. “Do you live here?” I asked.

“Nah,” she said and pulled the door closed behind her. “I think of this as my office.”

She stood with her feet shoulder width apart and her hands on her hips. “What’s it gonna be, cowboy?”

“I got a couple of questions.”

“Sure, sure,” she said, “but let me save you some breath. Yes, you have to wear a condom. And, no, I won’t let you do me in the ass or smack me around. We agree to any freaky business up front and if you try something that we didn’t agree to, I walk outside and someone comes in to have a talk with you. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious,” she said.

“Those weren’t my questions.”

I pulled out my money clip and tossed two hundred on the small desk in the room.

“What do you want for that?” she asked, suspicion firm in her eyes.

“Questions mostly.”

“What kind of questions?”

“What’s your name?”

“Grace.”

I showed her Fawn’s picture. “Grace, have you ever seen her down here?”

She never looked at the picture. “I thought you said you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not. I’m her father.”

Grace’s eyes flicked down to the picture. “Yeah, I saw her around here for a few days at the most. Nothing more than that, I think.”

“Was she working?”

Grace stared at me.

“It’s okay. I need to know.”

Grace nodded.

“Did she have a pimp?”

“Not really a pimp.”

“Was she paying protection to someone?”

Grace didn’t answer, her eyes challenged mine.

I considered waiting her out but knew my questions would get back to them if I pressed too hard.

“Was anyone giving her a rough time?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You hear most things that happen on these streets?”

She nodded. “That’s how we survive.”

“Who should I talk to about her protection?”

“Anyone but me, honey.”

“Okay.”

“You got any more questions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Want something for the rest of those bills, cowboy?”

“Not right now.”

“Whenever you want, baby.”

I nodded at her.

“But you know it’ll cost, right?”

“It always costs, Grace.”

She opened the door. “That it does, baby, that it does.”

Thursday, April 15 th 1611 hrs 507 West Corbin

TOWER

I heard the arguing in the backyard when I was half way up the walk. I couldn’t make out the words, so I veered off the walkway and around the side of the house. I loosened my tie and slipped out of my jacket.

The wooden fence groaned when I opened the gate and stepped into the back yard. The arguing ceased. Ben was seated in a lawn chair, a book in his hand. I saw his wheelchair at the back porch. Teri sat in a small kiddie pool, facing Ben, who was studiously ignoring her.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. “The neighbors called in a DV.”

Teri smiled, but Ben’s eyes were fixed to the paperback on his lap and his shoulders hunched over protectively.

“You deaf there, Benjamin?”

“He’s just mad,” Teri told me. “You’re home early.”

I turned my gaze to her. She sat comfortably in the small, blue kiddie pool. The water was to her waist. She wore a swimsuit bottom and a T-shirt. Her hair and shirt were both wet and I could plainly see her breasts outlined by the thin cotton of the shirt. I was suddenly grateful for the sunglasses on my face.

“I took off early. Why’s he mad?”

“Because I want him to have some fun and enjoy the weather.” She removed her hand from the pool and flicked water in Ben’s direction. He ignored her. “It’s not like we get weather this good this early very often.”

“It’s not going to last. I can feel a good rain coming.”

I watched her flick more water at Ben.

“Well,” she said, “I just thought it might be good for Ben — “

Another flick of water, and a sly smile from her.

“-to experience a little real life. He’s been spending too much time on that computer with his new game.”

Ben closed his book and looked up at her, then over at me.

“Just because I don’t want to go swimming in arctic weather is no reason to splash me.” With that, he turned back to his book.

Teri eyed him for a few moments, then raised both hands from the water and gave him a double flick.

“Teri!” Ben yelled.

“Ben!” she yelled back and broke into laughter.

Ben struggled not to laugh, but Teri’s laughter was so real and so infectious he didn’t have a chance. I found myself grinning as I watched them.

Ben turned to me suddenly and asked, “Uncle John, can we order some pizza tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Can Teri stay?”

“If she wants.”

He turned back to her and she shrugged. “Sure. If grumpy buns here is willing to smile, I guess I can be talked into some pizza.”

She stood in the pool. The water streamed off of her and the T-shirt clung to her body like a second skin. I admired the flat of her belly and curve of her hip. She smoothed her hair back into a ponytail and squeezed out the water. When she pulled the shirt tight and wrung water out of it, I wondered if she were doing it on purpose.

I tore my gaze away from her and headed for the back door.

“You want to call in the order, John?” she asked.

I stopped and turned to face her. She stood in the pool, her shirt still pasted to her body, facing me and smiling. Unabashed. Or innocent. Hell, I couldn’t tell which.

“Pepperoni?”

She nodded, then tilted her head and smiled at me. “Extra cheese?”

“You got it.”

Her smile broadened in thanks. Then she flicked more water at Ben with her foot.

I turned and headed in the back door.

Thursday, April 15th Palms Motel, Late afternoon

VIRGIL

A late afternoon rain descended on the city, covering everything in a wetness that would evaporate quicker than hope did on Sprague Avenue. I was in my room at the Palms Motel watching the clubhouse of the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross as well as any action that happened on the street. I’d put a chair next to the window so I could watch comfortably, but far enough back so no one could see me spying on them. The curtains were pulled to the side to maximize the view to outside. I had the television on for a bit as background noise, but quickly decided it was adding to my anger.

The headache I started the morning with was still there, only less jagged and more focused in my sinuses.

Two bikers pulled up in front of the clubhouse on noisy Harleys. They both wore long ponytails, scruffy beards and dirty blue jeans. On their backs they sported leather jackets with the patches of the BSC logo. The two turned off their bikes and ran up to the clubhouse door. The bigger of the two pounded on the front door until it was opened by another dirtball who looked to have been cut from the same cloth. The two nodded at the doorman and squeezed by him. Before the door swung closed, I could have sworn the doorman glanced up at me.

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, not wanting to admit that I’d been seen.

After the rain stopped, I ventured out to burn off a combination of impatience and nervous energy.

When I opened the door to the Tip Top club, I was greeted with a blast of cigarette smoke and AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. The door swung closed behind me with a loud clang. On stage, a small stripper gyrated her hips to the music. A tight, red thong ran up the cleft of her ass which was thrust towards the table of drunks near the stage. The girl stood up and faced me, showing off small breasts and a red scar that ran down the left side of her face. Her brunette hair was cut short, emphasizing her thin neck and the deep scar. She had a tattoo of a big, green dragon that covered her entire right thigh.

I walked to the bar at the back of the room. A big man stood behind the counter and watched the dancer. He had a dirty, grey beard starting to form on his round face. His mouth hung open as he stared at the stage. He had a broken front tooth which had turned an unattractive black.

Amid cheers from the tables of drunks, the dancer ground her crotch on the pole in the middle of the stage.

“Damn, she’s beautiful,” the bartender muttered.

When the song ended, I turned to the bartender. His eyes flicked over to me. “What’ll it be?”

I pulled out Fawn’s picture and laid it on the bar. His eyes glanced down and then back up at me. “She’s too young,” he said in a husky voice.

“For what?”

“For whatever you want. Either you’re looking for her or want me to hire her as a dancer. Either way she’s too young.”

“You’ve never seen her outside?”

“Man, I spend my entire time inside the bar. You see any windows on this joint?”

“Fair enough,” I said and pulled the picture back to me.

“What’ll you have?”

“An Ol’ Granddad’s? Neat.”

“I can do that,” he said. With a clumsy pour, he filled a glass, sat the bottle back on the counter and slid the drink in front of me. The small, brunette dancer sat next to me. She wore a men’s button-down shirt that stopped at mid-thigh. The large blue shirt was several sizes too big for her. Her bare feet dangled below her.

“Hi,” she said with a smile that caused the scar to bunch up on her face.

I nodded and noticed that her eyes were a steel grey.

The music started again, something that sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. I looked over my shoulder and saw a fat woman with long dark hair get up on the stage. She wore a spandex leotard and spun slowly around on the stage. One of the guys at the front table whooped and hollered at her. I shuddered and looked back to the bar.

The dancer on the stool next to me leaned in and whispered, “To each their own.”

I smiled back at her. “Yeah, I guess we all forget that sometimes.”

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Gina.”

“Virgil,” I offered and shook her hand. Then I looked up at the bartender who was watching us closely. I knew the game. “Buy the lady a drink. On me.”

She smiled. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke, George.”

He nodded and fixed her a drink.

Gina’s eyes flashed to the picture on the counter in front of me before snapping back up to me. “You a cop?”

“Why?”

“That picture there. A cop was in here yesterday flashing a picture of one of our girls that was murdered. She was a good friend of mine.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then what’s with the picture?”

“She’s my daughter.”

The bartender sat the drink down near Gina’s elbow as she leaned over to look at the picture. A thin film of sweat still covered her face and neck. Her scent was a mixture of musk and moderately priced-perfume.

The bartender moved away from us to the opposite end of the bar.

“I’ve never seen her. How old is she?”

“Fourteen.”

Gina looked around the bar with a confused smile twisted on her lips. “Why are you asking about her here?”

“She was in this area before she was murdered.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She reached out and touched my leg with her hand.

Gina kicked back her drink and stared at the picture of Fawn. I took a deep pull on my Old Granddad and felt the ice clink against my teeth. “How about another?” I asked her.

She nodded absently and I waved over George.

A moment later George pushed a drink in front of each of us. I pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Gina.

Gina turned to look at me for a minute with those steel grey eyes. There was a sadness in them that wasn’t there when I first walked in or when I first met her.

She turned her head away from me, but looked quickly back. Suddenly, Gina grabbed her drink and slipped her hand in mine. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else.” Her voice was shaky, but forceful.

I let her pull me from the stool and grabbed Fawn’s picture. After I tucked it back in my jacket, I grabbed my drink from the counter.

She led me back to a small room that served as the girls changing space. Gina closed the door and slid the lock. She put her drink down on a table and then grabbed mine from my hand to do the same.

“I’m not a whore,” she said.

I nodded and felt my heart beat faster. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt with a woman in a long time.

“I don’t want any money from you.”

“Then why?”

“I’ve seen pictures of two dead girls in two days and that’s more than I ever wanna see again. I guess I just wanna feel good right now.”

She snaked her hand around my neck. Gina pulled my head down to her and kissed me hard on the lips. When we broke, she stepped back and asked, “Will you help me feel alive?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

She unbuttoned the blue shirt she wore and let it fall to the floor. I stepped forward and grabbed her. I kissed her neck and tasted the salty sweat she’d worked up on stage.

I lifted Gina up on to the table, pushing our drinks to the side. She opened up her legs to me as I unbuttoned my pants and let them slide to the ground. Her scent ran through my senses as I closed my eyes and enjoyed her body.

When we were finished, Gina softly patted my chest as she broke our embrace. “Thanks, Virgil.”

She grabbed her drink and took a sip as I pulled my slacks up.

“Anyone tell you that you should be watching the Brotherhood?”

“I was told they were running all of the action in this area.”

“They are and they’re not forgiving to anyone who says no.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever the Southern Cross patch hits the streets, people get the hell out of their way or pay the price.”

“How do you know?”

Gina finished the last of her drink. “Some of the locals come in here and talk.”

“What about the Brotherhood? Any of them come in and talk?”

“No. They’ve got their own clubhouse. And if they want action, they go into downtown for the nicer bars like Fast Eddie’s or the Red Lion.”

Gina picked up her shirt from the floor. She buttoned it up quickly and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Don’t worry, Virgil. You don’t have to see me again.”

“I think I want to.”

She touched my face as she walked by. “Well, you know where I work.”

Gina opened the door and walked out into the bar. I followed her out and watched her sit back on her stool.

Around eight in the evening, I stood on the corner of Perry and Sprague, smoking a Camel and watching the bungalows across the street. A kaleidoscope of addicts wandered in and out of the small white buildings.

I shook my head and took a drag on my cigarette. My eyes flashed up and down the street, seeing everyone, but waiting for one special person. She rounded a corner from the east and clicked towards me with the same high heels she had on earlier. Her jeans and open flannel shirt were also the same. I sucked on my cigarette, burning it to the butt before flicking into the street.

When Toni got close to me, I turned my head slightly and smiled at her.

“You a cop?”

“I keep getting asked that.”

“That’s because you’ve got clean clothes and a new haircut.”

“I didn’t realize that was a sin.”

“Baby, everything down here is a sin. Looking for something special?”

“Looking for you.”

She grinned. “Ain’t that sweet. You got a car around here?”

“No.”

“We can go to a room, but you gotta cover the charge.”

I glanced up and down the street. “How about around the corner?”

She raised her eyebrows at me. “A dirty boy is hidden in those clean threads.”

I shrugged and smiled at her.

“You done this before?”

“A few times.”

“Good, so you know the drill. What are you looking for?”

“Nothing fancy.”

She slid her hand into mine. “That’ll be forty bucks then.”

“Sounds fair,” I said and led her into an unlit portion of the alley.

Toni spread her legs several feet apart and wriggled her hips. She ran her tongue over her lips in exaggerated sexuality that only worked on the virgins and freaks. “Okay, baby, unleash the demon and I’ll get to work.”

I showed her two twenties. “I don’t want that. I just want to talk.”

“About what?”

“About my daughter.” I showed her the photo.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

“I know she was working the strip. I need to know who was pimping her.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

“I need to know. Either we do this easy, or I’ll ask harder.”

Toni looked up and down the alley and fear entered her eyes.

“Tell me who.”

“The Brotherhood,” she whispered.

“Who in the Brotherhood?”

“Sammy G. He does their collecting.”

“He was her pimp?”

Toni shook her head. “Not pimp. Collector.”

“He takes a cut of the money?”

She nodded.

“He’s a pimp then. Were you working for him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pay money to him?”

”Yes.”

“Did he ever screw you?”

“What do you think?”

“Did he ever hurt you?”

She stared for a moment, but the truth was in her eyes.

“How can I find Sammy G?”

“Check the clubhouse.”

“I can’t exactly go in there. What’s he look like? And don’t say long hair and beard because that doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“I don’t know.”

I slapped her hard across the face. “Don’t play that game.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s got a birthmark on his face.”

“What else?”

Toni’s eyes flashed to her left. I followed them to a man just entering the alley. We were in the deep shadows so I knew he couldn’t immediately see us. I leaned in and pointed my finger at her. “Don’t make a sound.”

The man was of medium build he wore a ski jacket that was open in the front. His blonde hair was short and combed to the side. He stood there looking into the darkness of the alley, deciding what to do. He obviously was looking for Toni.

I watched him for a moment. Then I asked Toni, “Who is it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Toni?” the guy down the street called.

He stepped into the alley and moved to the side of the wall where it was darker. My eyes had already adjusted to the low light so I watched him as he walked. When he neared, I leaned into Toni and pretended I was kissing her. I gripped her hard by the upper arm.

“Okay, buddy, time’s up.”

I turned to look at him, but kept my head close to Toni’s so he couldn’t see her face. “Fuck off, man.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re done here.”

I didn’t answer.

“Listen,” he said and stepped toward me.

I whirled toward him and lashed out with my left fist. It caught him completely unaware. I followed with a hard right to the tip of his nose. The second punch landed with a sickening crunch. The man’s knees wavered and he took a stumbling step to the side. He raised his hands weakly in defense.

I took a powerful step toward him and threw a roundhouse punch as hard as I could. My fist landed on his jaw with a satisfying smack, right on the button. He crumpled to the ground.

Toni let out a small cry. I turned and pointed at her. “Shut it,” I growled at her, “or you’re fucking next.”

I looked down at the fallen figure. His coat was splayed open. Something glinted in the weak light from the street. I leaned closer and peered at his waist.

Shit. He had a badge on his belt. He was a cop.

I reacted immediately, crouching down next to him and running my hands around his waist. I came across his holstered gun right where I expected. I busted open the snap and pulled it from the holster. Then I stood and turned my attention to Toni.

“Who is he?”

She stared at me, her lip trembling.

I stepped closer and jammed the barrel of the gun under her chin. “Answer me.”

“Paul,” she stammered. “His name’s Paul.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Hiero,” she said.

“You’re kidding me. Hiero?”

She shook her head. “That’s his name.”

I lowered the gun. “What kind of cop is he?”

She stared at me, uncomprehending.

“Is he a vice detective, or what?”

“No. He works patrol.”

“Then what the fuck is he doing here?”

She didn’t answer right away, and that answered my question. “I get it,” I said. “You two got something going on, right?”

She nodded reluctantly.

Cops and whores, I thought.

“Tell Hiero I’ve got his piece.” I shoved the gun into the back of my pants. “You understand that if you tell the Brotherhood that I’m looking for them, I’ll be back?”

She nodded and rubbed the side of her face. Her eyes flicked to the still unconscious Hiero.

I stood, combing my hair with my fingers. Then I turned away and walked deeper into the darkness of the alley, knowing full well that at that moment I was the scariest thing moving in that neighborhood.

Friday, April 16 th 0941 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

My desk was cleared of everything except two files. Fawn Taylor and Serena Gonzalez.

I pulled the Taylor file toward me and opened it.

I flipped through the medical report, looking for the tox-screen. I paged all the way through the autopsy but didn’t find one. I checked again. Still no report.

I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Forensics Unit. Whitaker.”

“Cam, it’s Tower. Let me ask you something.”

“What?” His tone was guarded.

“Any reason why a tox-screen wasn’t done on Fawn Taylor?”

“No. One should’ve been completed.”

“There isn’t one in my file. Can you hunt it down for me?”

“Sure. Listen, I’m glad you called.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“Not really. I sent those two hairs off to the FBI. I don’t know if they’ll end up being the same guy or not, but the Fibbies may be able to extract some DNA. The turnaround time on that is four to six weeks.”

“Four to six weeks? Jesus, Cameron, can’t we get a little priority?”

“Everything the Bureau gets is either a murder or kidnapping or serial rape.”

“Yeah, but six weeks?”

“They’re busy and backlogged, just like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, yeah. My heart bleeds for federal agencies and their tribulations. Tell me you’ll keep on top of this.”

Cameron said, “I will” and hung up.

I paged through the Taylor file some more, reviewing facts that I already knew and hoping something would hit me.

Nothing did.

I was reaching for the Gonzalez file when the phone rang.

“Tower,” I said and turned over a photo of Serena Gonzalez at the dump site.

“Detective Tower? Ernie Williams, Salinas PD.”

“That was quick.”

“Sometimes things work out. Last night, I ran into three of the Gonzalez crew and Lucia was with them. I pulled her aside and we had a long chat.”

“You get anything?”

“I don’t think so. She hadn’t heard about Serena being murdered yet, so the first part of our talk was her getting a grip on things. After that, she told me everything she knew. It just wasn’t very much.”

“Anything might help,” I said.

“All she could really say was that Serena left to get away from her family. She didn’t have any boyfriends to speak of and definitely didn’t have any that she had problems with.”

“Did she write to Lucia after she left town?”

“Occasionally. She mostly got postcards from wherever Serena was staying.”

“Which was where?”

“L.A., first. Then Portland, Seattle and finally up there in River City.”

“What did the postcards say?”

“Not much. She’s in a new town, she’s got a new job, that kind of thing. No boyfriends ever mentioned.”

“She ever mention to Lucia what kind of work she was doing?”

“Lucia said waitressing and secretary work. And some kind of cashier up in River City. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d been lied to.”

“Were they very religious?”

“What do you mean?”

“It may be nothing, but I found a couple of pages book marked in the Gideon Bible in Serena’s motel room. I don’t even know if it was her that did it.”

“Well, they’re almost all Catholic, I can tell you that,” Williams said. “I don’t know that she was particularly devout, though. But who knows? People live double lives all the time.”

“That they do.” I moved the receiver away from my mouth and scratched my chin. I was surprised to find stubble there. I must’ve forgotten to shave again.

“Like I said,” Williams finished. “Not a lot of help.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you never know.”

“Call me if I can do anything else.”

We hung up.

After closing the Gonzalez file, I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.

I considered my options. I could head out to the crime scenes and re-canvass the area. I could go re-interview witnesses. Neither one was likely to turn anything up. I could sit on my backside for four to six weeks and hope the FBI miracle workers back at Quantico could solve my cases for me.

Or I could start over. Pretend I didn’t know anything about either case and approach both with fresh eyes.

Which one first? Taylor came first. Gonzalez was freshest.

I moved the Gonzalez file off the top of the Taylor file and set them side-by-side. Then I paged through both slowly until I reached the close-ups of the crime scene positioning. I looked back and forth between both.

That’s when I noticed something. Something subtle that I couldn’t put a finger on before. Maybe it was nothing. But it was there. Fawn was lying on her back. Serena was lying on her back. In both photos, the chin jutted upward, as if both women were staring up at the sky.

Or their killer.

A signature pose?

I’d rejected any thought of a single killer from the very first moment I went to Serena Gonzalez’s dump site. Why? Because it was too fashionable in today’s serial killer obsessed world to connect those dots? Stupid. Trends and politics should never outweigh logic in an investigation. Just stupid.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “We’ll run it from the top. See how stupid I really am.”

Victimology. Always start with victimology.

Both females. Check.

Both under twenty. Check.

But Fawn was White and Serena Hispanic. So there’s a minus.

I looked down at both pictures, side by side. Sure, Serena was Hispanic. There could be no mistaking that. But her skin was fair for a Latina. And she was beautiful. So was Fawn. So maybe, if it’s the same guy, maybe he doesn’t care about race.

Okay. So that’s not a check or a minus. It’s a neutral.

Both worked in the East Sprague corridor. Check.

Both worked in the sex trade. Loosely, anyway. Stripping was a long way from being a prostitute but it was a lot closer than working a cash register. Check.

Both bodies were dumped. Check.

Both dump jobs were ignoble and degrading. Check.

Both died of strangulation. Check.

I double-checked a page in both files and leaned back again. Check. Both had bruising on the wrist, probably from being tied up for some period of time.

Both women were sexually assaulted. Check.

Little or no transfer evidence on the body. Check.

That bothered me. From the day I made detective, I’d been taught that Locard’s Law was supreme. It was the law of transfer. When a suspect commits a murder or a rape or any crime, transfer exists. He brings something to the scene. He changes the scene. He leaves something at the scene. He takes something from the scene with him when he leaves. Any or all of these things happen, according to modern police science, even if they only occur in microscopic or trace amounts.

So, if this is the same guy, how come no transfer evidence is showing up? One pubic hair and one head hair. And the head hair was questionable. It could belong to anyone. Hell, so could the pubic hair. How many other men rubbed up against Fawn Taylor in the last few days of her life?

How does he avoid transfer?

Condoms. Gloves. Plastic coated trunk for transport. I suppose that was a start.

What else? What other checks or minuses?

Serena was stabbed. Fawn wasn’t. Was that a minus? Or, if it were the same guy, was he escalating?

I gathered up both files. The walk down the hallway was a short one. The Crime Analysis wing consisted of one large room with several cubicles. I weaved through the maze until I reached Renee’s desk.

She was mid-bite when I rounded the corner. A powdered donut jutted out from her mouth and when she saw me, she jumped. The donut broke off and she cupped her hands, catching it.

“Ugh,” she grunted at me and laid the donut on a napkin on her desk. A cup of steaming coffee sat next to it. She pointed to her cup and then across the room where a full pot was brewing. I set my files down on her desk and quickly poured myself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup. When I returned, she was washing her bite down with her own coffee.

“Busted,” I told her.

She shrugged and adjusted her thin glasses. “You want something?”

“Yeah. I need some fresh eyes.”

“Run it for me.”

I gave her all the details I thought mattered and some I wasn’t sure about. She listened carefully, interrupted seldom and then only to clarify. When I finished, she stared at the wall and absently handed me her empty coffee cup. I refilled it and put it in front of her and waited patiently.

After a few minutes, she reached for the cup and took a sip. She nodded and muttered her thanks, then began thumbing through the files. I refilled my own coffee and sipped it from the Styrofoam cup and read the cartoons she’d cut out from Foxtrot and The Far Side and pinned to her cubicle wall.

“Interesting,” she mumbled, then looked up at me. “Sexually motivated murder doesn’t just pop up in a vacuum, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“If this is the same perpetrator, then he did not begin his career with Miss Taylor.”

“You think it’s the same guy?”

She nodded slowly. “I would say so. Almost identical victimology, similar crime scenes, same cause of death. Both sexual assaults. Even this little pose here. Do you see that?” She pointed to photos of both Fawn and Serena. “See how he’s tilted their chins unnaturally? It’s almost like they’re looking up at something. If he were to stand at their head, this tilt would make it appear that they were looking right up at him.”

“If it is the same guy, then you’re saying he’s killed before?”

“No, not necessarily. The perpetrator may have stopped short of murder. But I’d be willing to bet that he has committed assaults before. And rapes.”

Renee turned to her computer and started typing. A couple minutes later, she said, “Okay, here it is.”

I leaned over her shoulder and looked at the screen. She pointed at data with the mouse pointer.

“I went back twelve months and put in criteria. Basically, we’re looking for rapes or assaults with some of the elements of your homicides. Within the last year, there have been two rapes that somewhat fit. Both are unsolved.”

She hit a button on her keyboard. “I’m printing off both reports for you. In both cases, white male perpetrator, manual strangulation involved, and sexual assault.”

“Suspects?” I asked.

“None named.”

“Only two cases fit?”

“Well, no. There were actually five that fell into the criteria, but three were solved and all three of those men are currently incarcerated or deceased. That leaves these two cases.” She tapped her finger on the computer screen. “Maybe this is your perpetrator. Maybe he started out with a rape and graduated to sexual homicide.”

“It would be textbook,” I said with a shrug.

“The textbooks are there for a reason.”

Renee stood and disappeared around the corner. When she returned, she plopped a small stack of paper on top of my files. “Hope this helps.”

“It does. A lot.” I gathered up my files and the reports. Then I turned to Renee.

She sat primly in her chair, holding her coffee cup and watching me. I leaned forward slightly. “Renee, I’d really like to work on this for a little while longer. If people start thinking serial killer on this…”

“There’ll be a task force.”

“Right. And four or five more dead bodies will pile up while they figure out who’s in charge and how to reinvent the wheel.”

Renee sipped her coffee, then set the cup down. “Right now, We’re just talking theory. If another body shows up, then I think we’ve moved past theory and more people need to get involved.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too.”

The apartment complex on Nora Avenue had paint peeling from the trim. It was one of many tri-plexes scattered throughout the lower north side of River City. Eva Patterson was the first victim in the reports Renee gave me. Her last known address was in number two.

I could smell a barbecue nearby as I mounted the rickety steps and knocked on the apartment door.

When no one came to the door, I leaned across the porch and tried to peer in the window. The thick white curtains obscured any view. I returned to the front door and knocked again. Still no answer. I raised my fist to knock again when I heard the jiggle of a doorknob.

“Who the hell is it?” came a disgruntled voice from doorway of number three.

“Police, ma’am.” I showed my badge. “I’m looking for Miss Patterson.”

A head full of curlers popped out from the doorway. “Eva? You’re looking for Eva?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She moved away months ago. Never said a word. Just packed her boxes out to her car one day and drove off.”

“You don’t know where?”

“No,” she admitted. “She didn’t say anything to me.”

“You haven’t seen her since she moved?”

“No. Don’t see much of anything around here.”

“Do you know where she works?”

“Samson’s,” she said. “Down on Sprague.”

“Thanks,” I told her and started back to my car.

“Eva Patterson? That stupid bitch left without giving notice months ago.”

I stood at the bar in Samson’s. It was a bar for white trash muscle heads, guys who couldn’t afford memberships at the trendy gyms, but lifted weights in their dirt floor garages. The bartender called himself Samson and I didn’t care what his real name was.

“She didn’t talk about leaving beforehand?”

He wiped the bar absently and shook his head. “Nope. Course, she wasn’t worth a damn after getting raped.”

“You knew about that?”

“Yeah. She missed three days of work because of it.”

“Any idea who raped her?”

“I got no idea.”

“How long did she work here?”

“I dunno. Seven, eight months.”

“Was she a good worker?”

Samson shrugged. “Not bad. How hard is it to schlep drinks, you know? She was easy on the eyes, though, and that’s what matters in here.”

“Was she dating anyone?”

“Not serious. At least, not so as I could tell. She jumped around a little bit, though.”

“With you?”

“Me?” Samson chuckled and wrung out his towel, then continued wiping. “I don’t bang the help.”

“Good policy.”

“It is for me.”

“Did she have problems with any of the patrons?”

“Nothing memorable. She got hit on a lot, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I mean more along the lines of obsessive or violent. Stalking. That sort of thing.”

Samson shook his head. “Then no. Not so as I ever heard.”

“Do you know where she moved to?”

“No.”

“Where she’s from?”

“Here, far as I know.”

I sighed. “How about any friends? You know any of those?”

“All I can tell you is that she was a tight little spinner, she came here and worked, she did okay until she got raped, then she wasn’t worth a damn. And then she left. End of story.” He shrugged. “If you find her, I still owe her about sixty bucks in wages. I already paid the payroll taxes on it, so she might as well have it.”

I turned and left the bar.

“What do you want with my Beverly?” the woman asked me.

I stood on the porch outside her trailer. The woman, Beverly Stubbs’ mother, had already refused to give me her first name and insisted I call her Mrs. Stubbs. When I had asked for her daughter, she became even more guarded.

“I’m doing some follow-up investigation, ma’am.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I’m trying to fill in some gaps in a few different cases, ma’am. Your daughter’s case is one of them.”

Mrs. Stubbs pointed her finger at me. “You sonsabitches have had plenty of time to find the man that hurt my baby. Why don’t you go do that instead of bothering her?”

“Ma’am, your daughter may have information that can help — “

“She already told you everything she knows! Asking her again isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Mrs. Stubbs, I am not here to con you. I’m here to see if your daughter can help me. Not just with her case, but maybe even with some others.”

“How?” She crossed her arms.

“Facts have come to light that weren’t available at the time of her assault. I need her help with them.”

“What facts?”

“I can’t go into that with you.”

“Then fuck off!” she screeched and slammed the door in my face. The trailer shifted and rocked as she stomped away from the door.

I waited and considered knocking again. I strained my ears to hear any conversation from inside the trailer.

The front door opened a crack, then widened to a foot. A young face appeared in the narrow opening. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry she yelled at you.”

I shrugged. “It happens. Can we talk?”

She cried harder and shook her head.

“Only for a minute, Beverly. Just one minute.”

She shook her head more forcefully. “I’m sorry, but I’m never gonna talk about that ever again.”

“Beverly-“

She looked away and closed the door gently.

I stood staring at the front door of the trailer. After a few seconds, I turned and walked back to my car.

Saturday, April 17th Palms Motel, Morning

VIRGIL

I spent the night in my hotel room at the Palms. I could have gone to the Davenport, but I wanted to stay close to ground zero, especially now that I’d raised the stakes by beating the off-duty cop.

I rolled over and sat up on my bed. The little digital clock on the nightstand said 09:30. Using the palms of my hands, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes before trudging off to the shower. When I was done, I climbed back into my clothes from the previous night.

I slipped Hiero’s Glock into the back of my pants. It would be hidden underneath my jacket, so I decided to take it with me when I left the room.

After making a phone call to River City Taxi, Axel pulled up in his white cab. I walked up and climbed into the back seat.

“Where to?” he asked with a smile. His formerly blonde spiky hair was now jet black, but he still wore the white shirt and black tie.

“The Davenport.”

He dropped the car into gear and headed toward downtown. “Would you like any music this morning?”

“No.”

He nodded and continued to drive in silence until we were at the hotel. The car pulled directly up to the curb and I handed him the fare.

“Sorry this was a short ride, Axel.”

“They all add up. Call when you’re ready to go somewhere else.”

I climbed out and swung the door shut.

In my room at the Davenport, I checked on my guns. No one had found them taped to the back of the television set.

Things were heating up on East Sprague. The Brotherhood of the Southern Cross was tied to my daughter before she was murdered.

I shook my head as I paced around the room. They might have seen me in the room across from their clubhouse. I knew damn well that they saw me when I was with the prostitute named Grace.

I wanted to carry a gun so badly, but it didn’t feel like the right time. I put Hiero’s gun in my suitcase underneath a pair of jeans and zipped it shut. I left my own guns taped to the back of the TV.

After changing clothes I went downstairs to the lobby and the payphone. I lifted the receiver to call Mr. Saccamano, but thought better of it. I didn’t have much to tell him and I knew he’d try to convince me to come home. I punched several buttons and heard a ringing in my ear.

“River City Taxi, can I help you?”

Axel dropped me off at The Hole around noon. Rolo was nowhere in sight, so I grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered an Old Granddad’s and sipped it quietly. About an hour later, Rolo strolled in with a tall, thin blonde on his arm. He was in an over-sized black puffy jacket and baggy black jeans. She wore black shorts, an Oakland Raiders sweatshirt and black high heels. She slid into the booth first and he slid in next to her. I caught his eye in the mirror behind the bar and he waved me over.

“Whatcha doin’ in this part of town, baby?”

“I was looking for you.”

“You found me. Whatcha need?”

I flicked my eyes over to the blonde and back to him.

“This is Rhonda. Rhonda this is —? Shit, I don’t even know your name.”

“Does she need to be here?”

Rolo thumbed at the blonde. “You don’t like this white girl?”

“That’s not it.”

Rolo scooted out of the booth and waved at Rhonda to leave. When she got up, she kissed Rolo on the cheek and turned back to me. Rolo dropped back into the booth and Rhonda strolled out of the bar.

I leaned in over the table and Rolo leaned in as well.

“Do you know any of the players in the Brotherhood?” I asked.

Rolo leaned back and watched me for a moment. “I know a few. None that are willing to work both sides of the tracks, if you know what I’m saying. But I can point them out in a crowd.”

“What about Sammy G?”

Rolo nodded. “I know of him. Never met him. He’s the Brotherhood’s pimp.”

“How can I find him?”

“He’s the only one with a birthmark on his face.”

“Does he go around and check on the girls?”

“Hell, no. They bring the cash straight to the clubhouse. That’s where they keep the dope to keep the girls happy. They don’t hold out because they don’t want the Brotherhood to hold out. It’s commerce built on trust.”

“How do I get Sammy G out in the open?”

Rolo closed his eyes and crossed his arms. He made small squeaking noises with his lips while he thought. When he opened his eyes, he said, “Bring him a girl. He’ll come out to check on the goods.”

“How the hell do I bring him a girl?”

Rolo smiled. “You rent one of mine for a day. Put her on a corner, let her work a few tricks. Sooner or later, Sammy will come to collect what’s his.”

“How much?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“I want something to bring Sammy out quick.”

“Then you want a girl who’ll get a lot of traffic.”

I thought about the blonde he brought in with him. “Rhonda?”

“She’ll get lots of attention.”

“How much for her?”

“To put her in a dangerous position like that? A grand a day. She keeps the green she makes on any tricks. And as soon as you get Sammy, she’s done workin’ for you.”

“Fair enough.”

The pimp waved over a lanky, black kid wearing a blue North Carolina jersey. “Get Rhonda,” Rolo ordered and the kid took off.

I pulled my money clip out and peeled off ten one hundred dollar bills. Rolo held out his hand and I laid the money in his palm.

Rhonda came into the bar and walked up to the booth. Rolo pointed to my side of the table and I scooted over to let her sit. Rhonda slid next to me and I could feel the warmth of her body.

“You’re his for the day.”

Rhonda smiled at me.

Rolo snapped his fingers and she immediately focused on him. “He’s gonna have you working in BSC territory.”

Confusion swept over Rhonda’s face.

“When Sammy G comes to collect, our boy here wants to talk with him. When that happens you come home, got it?”

Rhonda nodded.

“Any tricks you work, that’s all gravy. If he wants a piece of ass, he pays, too. He’s only paid for you to be a signal flare for the Brotherhood.”

I glanced over at Rhonda and she looked at me. “When do we start?”

“Now,” I said. “Hang near the bungalows. That’s far enough away from the clubhouse, but not too far so you won’t be noticed.”

“And you’ll be watching the entire time?”

I nodded.

Rhonda stood up and headed for the door.

“Happy hunting,” Rolo said as I followed Rhonda.

It took her exactly two hours and four minutes to get Sammy G to her corner. She’d picked up three tricks in that time, the shortest one lasting five minutes and the longest lasting twenty-three. I watched Rhonda from the window of the Lazy J.

A biker with long brown hair rode up to Rhonda on a black Harley and parked it at the curb in front of the bungalows. I dug out several bills and tossed them on the table to cover my tab.

With traffic driving by I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. The biker grabbed Rhonda by the elbow and walked her into the alley that ran between the bungalows and behind ACME TV. I trotted across Sprague and into the alley.

The biker had his finger stuck in her face. A large purple birthmark was splashed across the right side of his face. “I know you. You’re with that nigger, Rolo.”

Rhonda’s jaw was clenched shut.

“You wanna play in this part of town, you gotta pay.” Sammy G. reached down and grabbed Rhonda’s crotch.

Rhonda looked frantically over to me as I approached them. Sammy saw me and let go of Rhonda.

“What the fuck do you want, playboy?”

“Take off,” I said to Rhonda.

Rhonda turned to leave and Sammy reached out for her. “The bitch stays here.”

I punched him in the side of the face with a left cross. Sammy buckled and went to one knee. I stepped up to him and hammered him with a sweeping right hook. He spun around and ended up on his back.

“Go,” I told Rhonda and she ran as fast as her legs and high heels would carry her.

I dropped a knee across Sammy’s chest. “Who killed Fawn Taylor?”

“Fuck you,” he said with a spit of blood.

“Wrong answer.” I punched him in the eye and stood up. I lifted my foot and stomped down on the back of his left hand. Several bones crunched and he wailed in pain. I put my foot over his mouth to stifle his yell.

“You were Fawn’s pimp, right?”

Sammy held his hand and nodded furiously, my shoe still in his mouth.

“Was she a good producer for you?”

He shook his head and grunted something. I lifted my foot so he could talk. “She was terrible,” he said, his voice panicky. “She wouldn’t pay rent. Didn’t think she had to.”

“Did you make her see the errors of her ways?”

His eyes widened and he frantically shook his head.

“I hear you rough up the girls who won’t pay.”

“No, no, I don’t do that.” His voice trembled as he talked.

“Word on the street is that you Southern Cross pussies damage the goods.”

He held his broken hand against his chest. “I don’t do that. How can they earn if you damage the goods?”

“Then who in the Brotherhood is out there damaging the girls?”

Sammy started to say something but quickly closed his mouth. I stomped down on his stomach and doubled him up.

“Oh, God,” he moaned. He struggled to breath for several seconds.

“Who’s hurting the girls?”

“Cody. Rowdy,” he said in the between gulps of air.

“Who?”

“His real name’s Cody, but we call him Rowdy.”

“Why’s he hurting them?”

“He was the original collector, but he liked his job too much.”

“Whaddya mean?” I asked, glancing up and down the alley.

“He hurt the girls even when they paid.”

“Why isn’t Cody collecting now?”

“Because he was cutting into profits.”

“By hurting the girls?”

Sammy nodded. His face had gone completely white and he looked like he was about to puke.

“Did Cody kill Fawn?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“What do you think?”

Sammy winced in pain as he moved his hand. “He wanted to give her his special treatment.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He wanted to show her how pain is erotic.”

“What about you? Did you ever fuck her?”

His eyes flicked up at me. “Yeah,” he said in a small voice.

I slammed my foot down on his throat, keeping it there as he gurgled and scratched at my legs. When he stopped struggling, I slammed my foot down several more times. Before leaving, I dragged Sammy next to the dumpster.

I left the alley, realizing that I might have just found my daughter’s killer.

Saturday, April 17 th 1645 hrs 507 W. Corbin

TOWER

My pager went off in the middle of our game of hearts. I snatched it off my belt and turned off the sound. A phone number appeared on the LED screen. I recognized it immediately, but couldn’t remember who it belonged to. Then I realized it my own number at my desk in the detective’s division.

I looked up to see Ben and Teri both eyeing me with long faces.

“I’ve got to answer this. It’ll just be a minute.”

Laying my cards on the table, I went into the kitchen and dialed my number. It picked up on the second ring.

“Detective Tower?” the male voice asked.

“Yeah. Who’s this? Did you page me?”

“It’s Paul Hiero. I paged you.”

“What is it?”

There was a long silence. Then, “I got someone down here who wants to talk to you. It’s about your case. The Bingo lot girl.”

“Who?” I asked, but I knew.

“Toni Redding.”

“I already talked to her.”

“I know. She told me. But there’s been some…developments.”

“What kind?”

“It’d really be better if you came down here,” Hiero said.

I considered. It was the weekend and the last thing I wanted to do was police work. Reluctantly, I told him, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” I hung up the phone.

As I walked back into the dining room, I could see that they’d overheard enough to know I was leaving. I didn’t say a word, but went to my bedroom and pulled on my tennis shoes. I grabbed my shoulder rig and slipped it on, then clipped my badge onto my belt. On my way out, I grabbed my ID card.

When I returned to the living room, Teri was putting a Sprite in front of Ben. I raised my palms up in a shrug. “Duty calls,” I said lamely.

Both nodded that they understood, but the silence was cold.

“Can you stay?” I asked her.

She nodded. “No problem. I was going to ask you about that, anyway.”

“About what?”

“Staying.”

I opened the closet door and took out a windbreaker. When I turned back around, she was looking at me again. With a look I couldn’t quite place.

“What?” I asked.

“I wanted to talk to you about staying here.”

I slipped on my windbreaker. “I’ll pay you for it.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.”

“What then?”

Teri took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ve just been thinking a lot lately about things. I already spend more time here than at my own place. You guys are my only customers and I like it that way. Your schedule and Ben’s schedule works pretty good with my school classes and everything.”

I patted my pockets for my keys.

“They’re on the table next to the front door,” Teri said.

“What are?”

“Your keys.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She was still looking at me, so I asked, “What are you getting at?”

“I was just wondering if…well, since things are going so well, and you have the extra room…maybe I could stay here.”

I was stunned. “You want to move in here?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. I mean, I’m paying rent for an apartment I hardly ever use. I’m here or I’m at school. I’m hardly ever there. All my plants are dying.”

I stood still and didn’t answer. My silence must have prodded her to continue.

“I’ll pay rent, of course. And then it’ll be easier for you with work and all. You’ll always have someone available to take care of Ben.”

“You think Ben would be all right with it?” I asked her.

She smiled. “Ben loves me to death. I’m like the big sister he never had.”

I nodded. She was right.

“Let me think about it a little bit,” I told her.

Her face fell. “It was just an idea,” she said quietly.

“It’s probably a good one,” I assured her. “Just give me a little while to think about it.”

“All right.”

“I gotta go.”

“I know,” Teri said. “Duty calls.”

It was Saturday, so I parked in Lt. Crawford’s parking space right next to the building. The executive parking lot was almost empty anyway. I walked into the building and it was silent. With the exception of the Records division, which also supports patrol, the entire investigative division shuts down on weekends. If it was important enough, they’d call out detectives and pay them overtime to do the work, but the daily grind took a pause. I reflected briefly at how ludicrous it was to impose a nine-to-five order on a group of people whose adversaries worked twenty-four-seven. Such were the wisdoms of the department and its leaders, I guess.

I walked straight to my desk and didn’t pass anyone on the way. I immediately recognized the hooker, Toni, sitting in the chair next to my desk. She was facing away from me, but I knew it was her from her hair. It was cleaner than the last time I’d seen her and had a sheen to it that was almost beautiful. Officer Paul Hiero stood behind her, leaning on the cubicle partition. His hand rested on her shoulder and when he saw me, he pulled it away.

“Thanks for coming, John,” Hiero said.

“This better be good. You paged me out to talk with a witness I’ve already interviewed and wouldn’t tell me what it’s about. This better be worth it.”

“I think you need to hear what she has to say.” I looked at Hiero and wondered just how badly he’d messed up. That’s when I saw the bruising on his cheek and both eyes were blackened.

“How’d that happen?”

“Let my mouth overrun my ass in a bar after work the other night.”

I didn’t believe him, but turned my attention to Toni, who’s left side of her face was bruised.

“What happened? You run your mouth, too?”

She started to open her mouth to respond, but I held up my hand. “Wait.” I pointed to the empty interview room. “Let’s talk in there.”

Toni rose reluctantly and shuffled toward the room. She cast a slow, backward glance at Hiero. He took a step to follow her.

“Wait here,” I told him.

I turned away and strode into the interview room. I slipped off my windbreaker, letting her see the badge and shoulder holster. I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie and she needed to see some official emblems to put her in the right frame of mind.

“What happened to you?” I repeated.

She looked up at me, her eyes filling with tears. “What’s it look like? I got the shit kicked out me!”

“I can see that. Did a john do this?”

She shook her head.

“Your pimp?”

“I don’t have a pimp,” she said, frustrated.

“Then who?”

Toni sighed and looked down at her hands again. They continued their random twitching.

“I’m not going play twenty questions, Toni. If you’ve got something to tell me, then let’s have it.”

“It was some guy I’d never seen before. He acted like he wanted a date, but when we got into the alley, he started asking questions about Fawn.”

“Do you think he killed her?”

She shook her head again. “This guy wanted to know if she was working and who she was paying off. I tried not to say anything, but this guy scared me. So I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“That the BSC collected from me and from Fawn.”

“The Brotherhood is running girls?”

She nodded. “Everything west of Altamont, they take a cut.”

“What about that big guy that used to run things? Rolo?”

She shrugged. “Pushed east of Altamont.”

“Into the secondary market,” I noted. “You pay off the Brotherhood to work the corridor?”

“Yeah. Everyone does.”

“Including Fawn?”

“Like I said. Everyone.”

“They supply dope, too?”

Toni fixed her eyes on mine.

“The BSC collects from the working girls and then supplies these same girls with their dope?”

She nodded.

“What else did you tell this guy?”

“I told him about Fawn working and paying the BSC.”

“You tell him about Fawn doing dope?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember if he asked.”

I slammed my hand down on the desk. Toni jumped.

“You told me before she wasn’t doing dope.”

Toni sighed. “She wasn’t doing smack with me. But she was already gone on crack when she started down there. Some kid got her hooked on it. That’s what she said, anyway.”

“She tell you his name?”

She shook her head. “No, she called him M. M this and M that, all the fucking time.”

“You ever meet him?”

“No. I know he’s black and skinny is all. She never described him more than that.”

“So why was she working for the BSC?”

Toni rolled her eyes at me. “Jesus, how long have you been off the street?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“She didn’t want to work for Rolo, so she worked in BSC territory. Sometimes she paid them, sometimes she dodged them. She didn’t need them, ‘cause she got her crack from M or some guy M knew.”

“You telling me this back when we first talked would’ve been really goddamn helpful.”

Toni shrugged.

“What else did this guy want to know?”

“Who collected for the Brotherhood.”

“And who’s that?”

“Sammy G.”

“He collected from you and Fawn?”

“And the others.”

“What’s his real name?”

Toni looked at me, incredulous. “It’s all over the news.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sammy G. is dead.”

I leaned back in my chair, the hard drive in my head grinding. “Dead?”

“I thought you’d know. They found his body a few hours ago.”

“When did this other guy approach you?”

“Same day you let me go. That night.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, working out the timeline. First this guy gets information from Toni, then the guy she fingers turns up dead.

Or was he the killer, trying to cover his tracks?

Why kill Sammy G, then? Did he see something?

I shook my head. Just what I needed. Another mystery.

“What’d he look like?”

“White. About your age, I guess,” Toni said, with a shrug. “I didn’t pay much attention at first. They all look the same after a while.”

“Try a little harder.”

Her brow furrowed. “I dunno. Medium height. A little thick in the chest and neck, maybe. Remember that mafia guy in New York? The one that they busted a few years ago?”

“Gotti?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Who’s the one that snitched on him?”

“Sammy Gravano,” I said. “Sammy the Bull.”

“Yeah. He reminded me of that guy.”

“What color were his eyes?”

“I dunno.”

I took in all that she had told me. She watched me as I stared at her and thought. After a few moments, she looked away. After glancing back at me a couple of times to find me still staring at her, she finally asked, “What?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t come in here to do your civic duty. Last time you talked to me, it was to beat a solicitation rap and keep us from finding the heroin in your panties. What’s it for this time?”

She drew a wavering breath and met my eyes. “I see sometimes on these cop shows where a witness comes forward, you know? And the cops have a fund, like a special fund, where they can give that person some money, enough to catch a bus out of town and get started somewhere fresh. Somewhere safe. So I was thinking — “

“Unbelievable,” I said and stood to open the door. “Sit tight.”

After leaving the interview room, I met Hiero’s worried eyes and held them as I walked back to my desk.

“What’s up?” he asked me as I sat down in my chair.

“What’s up?” I parroted. “I think this is a little more serious than ‘what’s up,’ don’t you?”

He continued to meet my stare, but I could see his hand trembling in my peripheral vision. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice shaky.

“How deep are you in with this girl?” I asked him quietly.

“Deep,” he said.

“She thinks we’ve got some kind of fund set up to relocate witnesses.”

“What?”

“She said she saw it on TV.”

Hiero sighed. “I’ll explain it to her.”

“All right.” I rubbed the stubble on my chin. “She should stay somewhere safe and off the streets for a while. Until I figure out who this new guy is and what he’s up to.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hiero said.

“I don’t want to know.”

He hesitated, moving his right hand slightly as if considering offering a handshake. Then he rose slowly from his seat and walked carefully to the interview room. A few moments later, he walked out with Toni, his hand gently in the small of her back.

As they disappeared from view, I turned back to my desk and pulled out Fawn Taylor’s file. I stared at the tab with her name and the report number and didn’t open it right away. A single question was burning in my mind.

Who the hell was this guy?

Saturday April 17 th Palms Motel, Early evening

VIRGIL

I lit my last Camel and inhaled deeply. I’d been watching the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross clubhouse for five hours and no one, not a member, a prospect or junkie stopped by. There were no bikes in front of the club house. Everything had come to a screeching halt.

Earlier in the day, someone found Sammy G’s body and called the cops. They closed down everything.

From my window, I could see the cops crawling all over the area. They even tried to do a dog track, but the stupid pooch ran almost around in circles trying to catch a scent. The dog handler must have finally convinced the guy in charge that it was a worthless attempt.

Everything and everyone went underground as the cops searched for evidence.

That all changed, though, when the last of the cops left the area.

First, the girls came tentatively back to the street. One by one, they seemed to appear out of nowhere, their bodies went up for sale but the market hadn’t reappeared yet.

The hookers were followed closely by the dealers and the crack heads. They clustered in the doorways of defunct or closed businesses. Guys and girls with the shakes quickly found their suppliers. One short black kid sprinted across the street for a hit of crack. He didn’t step off of the sidewalk before he fired up. The dealer who sold him the junk screamed at him to move and the kid did as he was told, awkwardly trying to hit the remaining rock in his pipe as he ran.

A short time later, the citizens who like to play in this wonderland made their separate ways down. They stopped their cars alongside the girls and the dealers, buying whatever they needed to make it through the night.

But none of the BSC ever came back. I finally had enough of watching nothing and decided to walk back downtown. I wanted a change of clothes and to sleep in a decent bed.

I slipped out of my motel room and walked down the stairs to the first level. It was dark out and the streetlights illuminated the night. Standing with her back to the railing of the stairwell was a young girl, probably seventeen. She had a pretty face with dull eyes. She had plastered gel or something into her red hair to slick it back.

She wore a black mini-skirt, pink shirt and scuffed-up black, leather jacket. Her pink shirt said Hello Kitty with a Japanese styled cat in the middle. Around her neck was a large silver cross that hung from a black choker.

“Hi,” she said after pulling the cigarette from her mouth.

“Hey,” I said and started to walk by.

“Wanna date?”

I stopped and turned back to her. “What?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “Wanna date?”

I pulled out Fawn’s picture and showed it to her. “Ever see this girl?”

The girl shook her head.

“What’s it gonna be, pops?”

After slipping the picture in my pocket, I pulled out a couple of twenties and handed them to her.

She looked up the stairs. “Which room is yours?”

“No room. Take the money. Go watch a movie or something. Just get away from this for a little while.”

As I walked away, I heard her mutter, “Whatever.”

Sunday, April 18 th 2114 hrs East Sprague Corridor

TOWER

The warm weather from just a couple of days prior was nothing more than a memory. I started to roll up my car window, then stopped. Instead, I set the heater on low and switched the fan to the floor. Cool, fresh air drifted in through the window, but the lower part of the car remained warm. It was a setting I had used for many years on patrol on nights like this.

The weak yellow street lights of East Sprague failed to light the doorways and alleyways as I passed them. I wanted to find the guy that probably killed Sammy G. I doubted he was the one who killed Fawn or Serena, but he knew something about it. His actions were too close to the case and too brutal for him not to know something.

I was working off the clock because if I told Crawford what I knew, all sorts of things would happen. My cases would get task-forced and I’d be lucky to even be a part of it. If I was right and it was the same guy that killed both Fawn and Serena, more girls would die while the task force battled to figure out who was in charge.

This was my case and I was going to find the sick bastard who killed both of these girls. And if this Sammy-the-Bull look-alike son of a bitch got in the way, I’d walk through him, too.

“Listen to you, tough guy,” I muttered to myself. “Breaking all the rules.”

I spotted two figures on the corner of Sprague and Lee and another about two blocks further west. I swung in next to the closest two first. One of them, for a moment, struck a seductive pose, thrusting her hip out and arching her back like the models in men’s magazines all do. But as soon as my car drew near enough for her to make it as an unmarked police car, she turned away. The second girl, obviously younger, turned with her.

With a quick flick of my headlights, I got their attention. The older one turned around and raised both her hands in the air. “What?” she mouthed, her face pinched.

I turned off the lights and got out of the car, leaving it running.

“Come here. Both of you.” Two blocks up, the other girl turned west and started walking away.

The first one was Asian. “What the hell do you want?” she asked me with perfect English.

She wore a white one piece dress that hung off of her like she was just a wire hanger.

“What’s your name?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, man. Why are you hassling me? I’m just waiting for the bus.”

I looked to my left and right, but saw no bus stop. She watched me, then pointed across the street to the bingo lot where Fawn’s body had been dumped. A covered bus stop was located on the edge of the parking lot.

“Funny,” I said. “’Cause you were standing over here.”

“Is there a law that says I have to wait for the bus right over there?”

“Actually, yeah, there is.”

“Whatever. Creeps hang out under the cover. I don’t feel safe.”

“Why don’t we just cut through the crap and have a real conversation?”

“Real how?”

I pointed to the front of my car and she shuffled over and stood by the license plate.

“What’s your name?”

“Jade.”

“I’m not going to bother asking if that’s your real name. Then we don’t have to play the name game for another twenty minutes, all right?”

“Fine with me.”

I turned to the younger girl. She looked maybe twenty, which translated to probably seventeen if you took away the whore makeup. Maybe less. Her short red hair was gelled and pasted to her skull, like some science-fiction character. She wore a tight, black mini-skirt and a gray tank top. An oversized silver cross was attached to a black choker, reflecting the dull amber light of the streetlights.

“How about you?”

“What about me?” she snapped.

“What’s your name?”

“Fuck you. I ain’t got nothing to say to no cop.”

I held up my hands, “Whoa. Why all the hostility?”

“You assholes killed my brother. So go fuck yourself.” She turned and strode away purposefully. I let her go. I’d just have to catch up with her after I finished with Jade.

“Did you guys really kill her brother?”

I had no idea, so I ignored her statement. “When was the last time Sammy G. collected from you?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Sammy G.?”

“Yeah. Sammy G. Or do you work for Rolo?”

“I don’t pay no one. I’m independent.”

I stepped in close enough to smell her musky scent of perfume and stale sex. “Do you see my headlights on, Jade? Do you see my emergency lights flashing?”

She gave me a confused look. “No.”

“That’s because I am trying not to make a big production out of this. But if you want, I’ll throw you in the back of my car and take you up to the BSC clubhouse and tell them you’re my newest snitch.”

“Shit.”

“When did you pay Sammy G. last?”

“I paid him two days ago.” She looked left and right nervously.

“You know he’s dead?”

“Yeah, well, good riddance. I hope he rots.”

“Anyone else ask you about him?”

“About Sammy G.? Nobody talks about things like that, except maybe other girls.”

“Anyone try hurting you recently?”

“Like what? I get sickos every day.”

“Like really serious hurting. Raping, choking, stuff like that.”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I have one guy who gives me a miniature baseball bat and has me hit his pecker with it.”

“Sammy G. ever beat you?”

She shrugged. “He has his ways. Or had his ways, I should say.”

“Meaning?”

“He didn’t want to damage the merchandise, right? He never smacked us around. Maybe a hard grab or something. But if you crossed him more than a little, he’d bang the hell out of you.”

“He’d use rape to punish you?”

She shrugged. “I only had it happen once. That was enough for me. Some girls had it happen a few times.”

I crossed my arms. “He get violent with you when he raped you?”

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Rape’s not violent enough for you?”

“What I mean is, did Sammy G. ever choke you, either on the street or when he was punishing you?”

“Huh-uh,” she said, with a slow shake of her head.

“How about any of the other girls? You ever hear of anything like that?”

“No, never. What’s with the choking questions?”

I ignored her question. “And no one’s been asking you about Sammy G. or any of the other girls this past week?”

“No. I told you that.”

I showed her a five by seven of Fawn Taylor. “You ever see this girl?”

She took a quick look at the picture and shrugged. “Once or twice.”

“When?”

“A month or so ago. She was hanging with Toni. You know Blonde Toni?”

“Yeah. Did Sammy G. ever hurt the girl in this picture?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Like I said, I only talked to her once or twice. She was kinda hoighty-toighty for a crackhead.”

I showed her Serena Gonzalez’s DOL photo. “How about her?”

“That’s a lousy picture of her, but yeah, I think so.”

“Where?”

“I think she worked at one of the bars down here. She’d walk home some nights, right through the corridor. Some of the girls thought she was competition and were a little worried.”

“Why?”

“Girl was a hot tamale. She would’ve taken away a lot of business.”

“Did Sammy G. ever talk to her or hurt her?”

She gave another shrug. “Not that I heard about. But I don’t think she was working.”

I pulled a business card from my back pocket and handed it to her. “If any of those things I described happen to you or anyone around you, give me a call.”

I drove around briefly, looking for the little angry girl with the sci-fi haircut and dead brother, but she was off the main strip and nowhere to be seen. I swung in next to the other working girl I’d seen before she disappeared, too.

“Oh, for Chrissakes,” the prostitute said, spreading her hands open wide to me. “I’m just walking here.”

“I’m not looking to bust you,” I told her.

She was blonde and had her hair pulled back in a tight pony tail that bobbed when she walked.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. Her lips were pressed together, but even in the poor light, I could see the bright red lipstick.

“I’m not looking to screw you, either, so relax.”

She turned her hip to me and leaned forward slightly. The tube top she wore showed her ample cleavage. “Sugar, if you ain’t gonna bust me and you ain’t gonna fuck me, then you are wasting my motherfuckin’ time.”

“Wow. You eat with that mouth?”

She pursed her lips and let the tip of her tongue curl out slowly, caressing her lips. “Baby, I do everything with this mouth.”

Despite the long day, I had to smile at that one. “What’s your name?” I asked her.

“What do you want it to be?”

“Nuh-uh. What’s your name?”

She tilted her head as if she were trying to figure me out. “I go by Grace. What’s your name, baby?”

“Tower. John Tower.”

“You say that like it’s a secret agent name, John Tower.”

“I’ve got a few simple questions. After you answer them, you can go back to work and I’ll leave you be. On top of that, you can tell me to fuck off as you leave, if you want. Make anybody watching think you didn’t cooperate.”

“What do you want to know?” she said briskly. “And handcuff me while we talk.”

I stepped closer to her and motioned for her to turn around. She put her wrists together without being told.

“I know Sammy G. collected for the BSC out here,” I said.

“Congratulations.”

“Did he collect from you?”

“Is this an audit?”

I slipped the cuffs onto her wrists and clicked them home.

“Not too tight,” she said in a low voice.

I laid Serena’s picture on the hood of my car. “Can you see that?”

She nodded.

I took one of her elbows and used my foot to direct her to spread her feet apart. “Ever see her before?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I never saw her before.”

I laid Fawn’s picture on top of Serena’s. “How about her?” I asked and reached toward her to pat her down.

“Yeah. I’ve seen her. She was working around here for a while about a month ago.”

My hands slid along her waistline. “Was she working alone?”

“Maybe. I dunno. I saw her with Blonde Toni once. By herself, too. She was an early-bird crack-head.”

“Early-bird?”

“Not all messed up yet. It takes a little while for crack to start showing through.”

I bent her over at the waist and ran my hand down her calf and checked her tennis shoes.

“You wanna pay for a date, Special Agent Tower?” she cooed at me. “‘Cause this is feeling like about twenty dollars’ worth.”

I didn’t answer her, but stood her back up and switched sides. She didn’t have a lot of clothing to search and I still had a few questions.

“Did Sammy G. ever hurt this girl?”

“Sammy who?”

I gave her wrist a little twist and she yelped. “Let’s play nice, Grace. No lies and we’ll get finished quicker.”

“That’s police brutality.”

“Did Sammy G. ever hurt the girl in the picture?”

“I don’t think so. She wasn’t around long enough. She made some payments and ditched a few, it seemed like. She was scoring her crack somewhere else. I never saw her at the clubhouse.”

“Sammy G. ever hurt you?”

I felt her body stiffen as I searched. “Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“It doesn’t matter what he did to me. Besides, he was nothing compared to that sick fuck Rowdy.”

“Rowdy?” I bent her at the waist again and took my time squeezing her shoe as if searching for something. “Who’s Rowdy?”

“The guy who collected before Sammy. He was a sadistic asshole, smacking girls around even when they paid. He forced some of us to do some weird shit, too.”

“Weird how?”

“Dungeons and whips, that kind of thing. I can’t stand that stuff.”

I walked her to the rear of the car and had her lean against it. The streetlight didn’t reach us there.

“What ever happened to Rowdy?”

“He’s still at the clubhouse. I don’t know what they’ve got him doing. I told Sammy G. that I wasn’t going on any more dates with Rowdy. If they made me, I’d leave town and go back to Portland or over to Seattle. I’m not into that freaky-deaky shit.”

“What’s Rowdy look like?”

Grace laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“He looks like Howdy Doody,” she said. “That puppet from the fifties, you know?”

I reached out and guided her to turn around. As I unlocked the first cuff, I asked, “Anyone else come around asking about the girl that was with Blonde Toni?”

Grace paused and I knew the answer was yes. I stopped after uncuffing one wrist and waited for her to respond.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “A few days ago.”

I uncuffed her other wrist. “What’d he want to know?”

She turned around to face me, rubbing her wrists. “If she was working. Who was pimping her. And if anyone was hassling her.”

“This guy, was he kinda beefy?”

“Yeah, kinda. In the chest. Not fat, though.”

“Did you ever see him before then?”

“Nope.”

“Since?”

“Huh-uh. I didn’t think much of it. We talked, had a sort-of date and he left.”

“Sort of date? Did he try to hurt you at all? Choke you?”

“No, but let me tell you something. He’s dangerous. I could tell.”

“Think he could kill someone?”

“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. But he was decent to me. When we finished, he went back to looking for his little girl and I went back to work.”

My eyes snapped to hers. “His little girl?”

“Yeah, baby,” Grace said, tapping Fawn Taylor’s picture. “He said he was her daddy.”

Sunday, April 18th Davenport Hotel, Early evening

VIRGIL

When the white taxi arrived, I flopped into the back seat and rubbed my eyes. “What’s up, Axel?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Axel isn’t working tonight.”

I dropped my hands and stared at the kid driving. He wore the same white shirt and black tie that Axel wore, but his brown hair was conservative and he had the bright face of youth.

“Where’s Axel?”

“He’s off most nights. I lease his cab from him when he’s not driving. Where can I take you, sir?”

“The Palms Motel.”

The kid nodded and turned around in his seat. He dropped the car into gear and pulled quickly away from the curb.

“Any music tonight, sir?”

“No thanks,” I said absently before looking up at the kid who was driving. “What’s your name?”

“Damon,” he said, but kept his eyes on the road.

“Damon, did Axel teach you how to drive a cab?”

His eyes flashed to the rear view mirror. “Yes, sir.”

I leaned back and smiled. My luck was finally changing.

After paying for the ride, I quietly walked up the stairs to my room in the Palms. I opened the door and stepped into the dark room, closing the door behind me. No light from neighboring neon signs slipped in past the drawn curtains. In the stillness of the room, I smelled a mixture of body odor, liquor and leather.

“Don’t fucking move,” the voice growled at me from the darkness.

Something stirred to my left and I turned a second too late. A blow crashed across my jaw, forcing me further into the room and onto the floor.

“Get him!” a voice boomed.

Hands grabbed at me and I threw punches wildly in the darkness. Someone kicked me hard in the ribs and I let out a loud cough of air. I rolled over to push myself up and a ton of bricks slammed on to my back, pinning me to the floor. A hand slid its way into my hair and bounced my head off of the floor several times.

A voice giggled in the darkness.

“Shut up, Doc,” the first voice ordered.

Doc’s laugh snapped off.

“Mikey, you got the prick?”

A low voice over my shoulder answered back. “Yeah.”

“Want I should hit the lights?” Doc asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

The room lit up with a flash. I tried to lift my head to look around but Mikey slammed my face into the carpet. The taste of blood washed around in my mouth as I tried to count the voices. Through the muck and mire in my brain, I counted three voices. Mikey, Doc and the boss.

“Doc, pull the chair over near Mikey.”

I heard a chair drag across the carpet.

“Mikey, give ‘em one good shot in the kidney to put him straight.”

I tried to brace for the blow, but still almost wet myself when Mikey’s fist thundered down on the back of my right kidney.

“Doc, give him a hand lifting the cocksucker up.”

The two of them hoisted me up and dropped me into the chair. I glanced around the room and saw the three of them. Each had dirty jeans, black leather jackets and long greasy hair. The one in front of me stood across the room, his arms folded across his chest. A spider-web tattoo spread out around his neck.

The one to my left had a goofy smile that revealed several missing teeth. His eyes lit up in excitement when I glanced at him. He stood between me and the door.

On my right was a monster of a man. A mixture of fat and muscle, his head was almost twice the size of mine. He sneered at me when my eyes met his. A hand whipped across my face and sent shock waves through my teeth.

“Don’t look at me,” Mikey growled.

I lowered my head and swept my eyes around the room, looking for anything to help.

“What are you doing?”

When I didn’t answer, Doc grabbed me by the back of the hair. “Razor asked a question.”

I lifted my eyes up to Razor, the boss of the three-man crew as he spun around a ring on his right hand.

“Are you fags going to gang rape me?”

Doc yanked my head back as Razor jumped across the room. His hand crashed into my cheek and his ring tore a chunk of flesh from my face. I could feel the blood immediately cascade down my face and neck.

“We ain’t in prison, bitch. Ain’t none of us fags.”

“Except Doc,” Mikey joked.

Doc let go of my hair and pointed at Mikey. “Shuddup, you fuck.”

Mikey laughed, but kept a tight grip on my arm.

“Doc, you better grab….”

I swung my left arm at Razor, catching him with a glancing blow across his chest. He fell backwards as I struggled to stand up. Doc latched on to my free arm, stopping my momentum. Mikey leaned in and head-butted me in the forehead. I collapsed back into the chair.

Razor scrambled back over to us and climbed on top of me. His hand snaked into my hair, where he grabbed hold and then slammed his fist into my face four times. Razor shoved himself off of me and stood.

I ran my tongue over my teeth and found a couple were broken on the left side of my mouth.

Razor pointed at Doc. “Don’t ever let go of him again.”

Mikey squeezed tighter around my right bicep. My hand went numb from the pressure.

“Who sent you down here?”

“No one,” I said and felt blood dropping on to my chin.

Razor’s hand shot out and slapped me across the face.

“Why’ve you been watching the clubhouse?”

I shook my head, trying desperately to clear the fog of pain. “I haven’t.”

“Wrong answer,” Doc said.

Razor spit in my face. “We’ve been watching you watching us.”

My head felt heavy and I dropped it down. Razor’s black boots were scuffed and his jeans were tattered at the legs.

His hand grabbed my face and Razor tilted my head up to meet his eyes.

“Our girls have been reporting back that there’s some sonuvabitch asking questions about a girl and our club.”

I noticed inside the spider-web tattoo on Razor’s neck was a long, ugly scar that ran across his throat.

“And just this afternoon, one of our crew got hisself killed.” Razor jabbed his finger at me. “I think you had something to do with that.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

Razor slapped me hard across the face. “You lyin’ sack of shit. Who’s the girl you’re asking about?”

I lowered my head and let the blood in my mouth run out. “My daughter. I’m gonna find the guy that murdered her and kill him.”

Razor lifted my head up again. “You know who that is?”

”Yeah.”

“Is he one of our crew?”

I nodded.

“Did you kill Sammy G?”

I glanced over to Mikey and smiled.

“Don’t look at me, cocksucker.”

Mikey’s eyes raged as I kicked upward into the Razor’s balls. Razor grunted and fell to his knees.

“What the —?” Doc squealed.

Mikey let go of my arm with one hand to punch me in the face. I pulled away and leaned forward. Mikey’s punch glanced off of the back of my neck, sending shockwaves to my brain.

I pushed out of the chair with Doc still latched on to my arm. With a quick shove, I buried two fingers into his right eye socket and yanked out his eye.

Doc shrieked in horror and covered his face with both hands. I spun around to face Mikey as he punched me hard in the chest. My legs back-pedaled for a moment before I crashed over the bed. He followed me and landed on the floor next to me. As his hands scratched for my neck, I grabbed the telephone from the nightstand next to the bed and brought it down across his temple.

Mikey’s hands tightened around my throat and I continued to pound his head frantically with the phone.

Doc screamed in the corner and I knew Razor would recover at any moment.

The phone’s plastic housing started to disintegrate from the blows and I felt darkness creeping in around the edges of my consciousness. Mikey’s fingers squeezed harder amid Doc’s screams.

I brought the phone across Mikey’s temple one more time before his grip went slack. His remaining weight dropped on to my chest, pinning me to the floor. Over his shoulder, I saw the leader of the crew standing with a straight razor in his hand.

I squirmed to get free of Mikey’s weight.

“You cocksucker,” Razor yelled, spittle flying everywhere.

He stepped forward and I lashed out a leg at him. His hand arced downward and I felt a sudden burning in my shin.

“Get him,” Doc squealed from the corner.

When I broke free of Mikey’s weight I rolled over and pushed up. A burning sensation followed a thump across my back and I knew Razor had hit me again. I spun around and lifted my arms to protect my face.

The razor slashed through my flesh and I let out a surprised squeal. I jumped at Razor and tied up his arms as we crashed to the floor. We wrestled around as Doc kicked at me, one hand covering the bloody mess of his eye.

The blade cut my hands several times before I ripped it away from Razor. Once in my hand, I lashed out at Doc and caught him in the face with the razor. He stumbled backwards and crashed onto Mikey.

I drove the blade across Razor’s throat, tracing the old scar’s path. The blade was buried so deep I snapped off the handle. I threw it to the side as Razor gurgled and clutched at this throat.

With a quick turn, I latched onto Doc and brought my arm across his throat. I pulled tight, crushing his windpipe with my forearm. He clawed at my face and kicked wildly for a few moments. When Doc finally died, I pushed him away from me and let him fall face first into the wall.

Mikey was still out cold so I grabbed a pillow from the bed and covered his face. He never fought back, but slipped in to that permanent darkness almost peacefully.

I sat on the ground and listened to the silence. Some nosey neighbor had to have heard the fighting and Doc’s frantic shrieking. I tried to get up but fell to my knees. From my gut I felt a burning and tried to hold it down, but I was unable. I puked all over the carpet in my room.

Carefully, I stood and considered dusting the room, but thought better of it. I grabbed the broken handle from the straight razor and the remnants of the telephone. Any other prints I’d left in the room could be explained away as a prior tenant.

With the front of my shirt, I opened up the door. While holding it by the edges, I hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. Carefully, I pulled the door shut as I slipped out into the hallway. I hurried away from the hotel and into the darkness behind it. For several blocks, I ran along the train tracks that cut through the heart of the Sprague district. I stopped behind a small, one-story building and wiped off the telephone and razor handle as best I could with my shirt. An old plastic shopping bag was caught up in a nearby bush. I worked it free and put the telephone in it along with the broken handle, careful not to add any more prints.

Grabbing the open end of the bag, I threw it and its contents onto the roof of the small building.

I leaned against the back wall and felt my body sigh in pain from various wounds. My clothes were covered in blood and I was leaking more. I needed an ally.

Music pounded through the speakers as I stepped in through the back door of the Club Tip Top, ignoring the big white letters on the outside that announced “NO ENTRANCE.”

I peeked into the dressing room and one girl was getting dressed. A moment later I stood at the mouth of the hallway, my eyes searching the room for her.

She was seated at the bar with a Coors Light in front of her on the bar. She wore a green silk robe around her body that revealed the green dragon tattoo that lived on her right thigh. I stood in the semi-darkness of the hallway hoping to catch her eye.

Gina was in a mild conversation with a clean-cut family man in a polo shirt and khakis. He stared intently at Gina as she talked with a smile.

From behind the bar, George poured drinks while chatting with the fat dancer I’d seen earlier. Up on the stage, a cracked-out black girl vibrated to some rap song.

“Excuse me,” a feminine voice asked with a tap on my shoulder.

I glanced over my shoulder at the dancer from the changing room. The brunette wore a white terrycloth robe that hung open in the front to reveal a red, white and blue bikini. A soft stomach pushed out over the top of the bikini bottoms.

“I need to get by,” she said with a smile that quickly faded. “What happened to your face?”

“Car accident. Can you get Gina for me?”

The dancer backed up. “Listen, buddy, I don’t think that’s a good idea. ‘Sides, she’s with a customer.”

“She knows me. Tell her it’s Virgil.”

She eyed me for a moment before slipping past and hurrying over to Gina. She whispered in Gina’s ear for a moment before heading towards the stage.

Gina leaned back on her barstool with a concerned look in my direction. I leaned into a better-lit portion of the bar to let her see me. When recognition washed across her face, she turned back to her conversation partner and said a quick good-bye. I stepped back into the darkness and stumbled to the dressing room. A couple of seconds later Gina walked in, swung the door closed behind her and stopped in her tracks.

“What happened to you?” Her eyes took in all of the blood before looking up at me.

“I need your help.”

She grabbed a white towel from the table near the door and moved next to me. Gina gingerly touched my face with the towel. “The Brotherhood did this to you, right?”

“Gina,” I said quietly and reached out for her.

“Were you responsible for the dead one earlier today?”

I ignored her question. “Gina, please.”

She backed away. “Son of a bitch. If they see me with you, they’ll come after me.”

I lowered my head. “Gina.”

“You need to go. Now.” Her voice was low but still worried.

My eyes met hers. “One of their crew killed my daughter.”

For a moment, she looked over her shoulder at the door. When she turned back, her steel grey eyes were sharp. “Do you know who did it?”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod.

“Was that who you killed today?”

I shook my head. “That was self-defense. He attacked me.”

She flicked another glance at the door.

“Gina, nobody’s coming after me.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Did you kill them too?”

I nodded.

She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, God.”

“I know who killed my daughter. He probably killed your friend, too.”

Her eyes flashed with rage before the fear took hold again. “Do you think so?”

I nodded even though I didn’t know for sure.

Gina stepped back over to me and handed me the towel. “What do you need?”

“Do you have a car?”

She nodded. “It’s out back.”

I looked over to the chair in the corner. “Grab that jacket over there.”

“That’s George’s,” she said but picked it up anyway.

“He can have it back. I need you to give me a ride back to my hotel.”

She helped me put George’s large, grey jacket over the jacket I was already wearing. “Holy shit, you’ve got a lot of blood on you.”

“Not all of it’s mine.”

Her eyes glanced up as she reflexively pulled away.

I grabbed her arm to keep her from running. “What kind of car do you drive?”

The ride to the hotel was quick and uneventful. Holding my head up was getting tougher so I leaned against the window and felt the coldness of the glass against my skin.

Her older model Toyota Corolla didn’t attract any attention as she parked in lot near the Davenport.

“This is your hotel?”

I nodded as I pushed myself out of the passenger seat.

Gina glanced over at me as we walked into the lobby. I held on to her arm for support and to keep her from freaking out. “Make sure you stay between me and the check-in desk.”

Her eyes swept around the lobby. I wondered if it was the first time she’d been in the hotel.

We made it to the elevator and then my room without anyone noticing us. Once inside, I stepped into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet with the lid down. Gina walked around the room for a moment before returning to me.

“This is amazing.” She looked like a young girl who had just seen Disneyland for the first time.

“Gina, I need you to go to the store for some supplies.”

Her eyes focused in on me. She nodded and listened intently as I rattled off what I needed.

“I’ll be back,” she said, and left the room.

I carefully moved into the bathtub. My head rested on the back ledge as I drifted off into sleep.

Monday, April 19 th 0834 hrs Taylor Residence

TOWER

I gave the door a graveyard knock. The bottom of my fist hammered on the door, making it rattle. I gave five solid knocks, waited twenty seconds and gave five more. Then I waited thirty seconds and was about to give five more when the door opened.

Steve Taylor’s hair was tousled, with one side standing straight up and the other matted down. He wore a thin, white robe that I guessed actually belonged to his wife and had just been the first thing he could grab when he scrambled out of bed to see who the hell was breaking down his door.

“Detective?” Sleep clouded his eyes, and the alarm in them was already fading once he saw it was me at the door.

“Good morning,” I said briskly. “May I come in?”

He nodded and stood aside. Once inside the large entryway, he closed the door quietly and asked me, “Has there been a breakthrough in Fawn’s case?”

“No. Not a breakthrough,” I told him. “A development. I need to speak with your wife.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Uh, she’s still sleeping.”

“This is something you need to wake her for, Mr. Taylor.”

“Um, okay.” He padded toward the staircase, then stopped. “What time is it?”

“About eight-thirty.”

He nodded, then gestured toward the kitchen. “The automatic coffee-maker kicked on at eight, if you want some.”

“Thanks,” I said, but didn’t move.

He climbed the stairs and disappeared.

I wandered into the room to my left, sitting down on the piano bench. I looked down at the piano keys and was tempted to touch one to see if the Taylors kept it in tune. They probably did, even if no one played it. I shook my head at how ridiculous it was to pay a piano tuner to tune a piano no one played.

I sensed Steve Taylor come in the room and turned to face him. He held two steaming cups of coffee and offered me one. I hesitated, but took it.

He glanced around the room through his John Lennon specs. “We can talk in the library, if you prefer. There’s better seating there.”

“How long will your wife be?” I asked, rising to follow him.

He opened his mouth to reply but another voice interrupted him.

“She won’t be long at all,” Andie Taylor said from the foot of the stairs.

She wore a silk, floor-length nightgown, a vibrant peach color. The white robe Steve had answered the door in was belted loosely at her waist. Her hair was brushed out and it seemed to shimmer in the morning light that shone through the skylight above the front door. I met her eyes from across the room and said nothing.

“The library?” Steve asked me.

I nodded and followed him. I took the chair and Andie curled into the corner of the couch. Steve sat next to her and offered her his coffee. She took one sip and handed it back to him.

When both of them had settled their eyes on me, I looked directly at Andie Taylor and asked her, “Mrs. Taylor, are you at all interested in seeing your daughter’s killer brought to justice?”

Surprise leapt into her eyes, but I saw a flicker of something else there, too. Panic.

“What kind of question is that?” she sputtered. “Of course I do.”

“Then why did you lie to me?”

“About what?” she asked. After a moment, she added, “I haven’t lied about anything.”

I didn’t answer right away. Now that she wasn’t weeping in full blown grief, I saw a certain brand of arrogance creeping back into her personality. It was the arrogance of the rich, a haughtiness that came with thinking that money made you smarter and better than some people and above certain things.

Andie looked to Steve, then back to me. “Is that why you’ve come here this morning and woken me up, detective? To throw accusations at me? Isn’t it enough that you thought Steve was — “

“I know he’s here in town,” I told her.

She gasped in mid-sentence and her lips hung open for a second before she pressed them back together. “I…I don’t know who you might mean,” she said lamely.

“Yes,” I told her. “You do.”

Andie looked back and forth between Steve and me, her eyes frantic. Steve sat quietly, watching me, his cup perched near his bottom lip. I fixed Andie with a hard stare and said nothing, content to watch her squirm.

She didn’t last long. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I — “

“Fawn’s bio-Dad is here in town. He’s looking for her killer. And he’s not being nice about it.”

I looked for surprise on their faces, but saw none. Andie bore the look of a socialite caught snooping in someone else’s medicine cabinet while Steve just sat quietly, holding his coffee cup close and sipping from it occasionally. What I had just said wasn’t news to either one of them.

“I-“ Andie began.

I held up my hand, interrupting her. “Before you even try to deny knowing about this, let me tell you what we’re talking about here. First, we’re talking about a vigilante, who is hurting people to get to the person he’s looking for. People who had nothing to do with Fawn’s death.” I grimaced inside at that lie, but it was necessary.

Andie swallowed, listening.

“Second, he’s destroying any chance of my investigation gathering enough evidence to convict Fawn’s killer. I know that probably doesn’t matter, since you think that this guy will find him first and kill him. But it does matter. Because I will find him first and arrest him. Only, this guy will have torched so much physical and testimonial evidence in the process, I’ll never get a solid conviction. The killer will get some weak sentence at best, serve a few years and be out. You want that?”

“No,” Andie whispered.

“That’s where this is headed. That’s if he finds the right guy. He doesn’t have a lab to check DNA, fingerprints and fiber samples. He doesn’t have criminal history to compare. All he has is wild conjecture that comes from street people who wouldn’t know the truth if it came with a bottle of fortified wine.”

I leaned forward slightly, my eyes moving back and forth between Steve and Andie. “Innocent people have already been hurt. You know what he’ll do to the person that he thinks killed his daughter, don’t you? Of course you do. But what if he finds the wrong guy? You really want to be responsible for some poor, innocent bastard dying a terrible death just because some crack-head or pimp dropped his name as Fawn’s killer?”

The panic in Andie’s eyes grew. “I — “

I held up my hand again, stopping her. “Let me tell you what’ll happen if he finds the wrong guy. Or even if he finds the right guy. Before I even work that crime scene, I will come to this house with a patrol officer and I will slap you in cuffs. I could do that now for obstructing my investigation. But if I come back after he’s killed some guy, it won’t be for obstructing. It’ll be for conspiracy to commit murder.”

Andie Taylor stared down at her knees with unfocused eyes, giving small little shakes with her head.

Steve Taylor placed his cup on the table, then put his arm around Andie. He leaned in to her and whispered in her ear. I don’t think he thought I could hear him, but his words were very clear in the morning silence of their home.

“Just tell him, An,” he said in her ear. “Tell him or I will. Tell him for Fawn’s sake.”

At the whisper of her daughter’s name, Andie’s eyes filled with tears and some of her pretensions melted away.

“Yes,” she said thickly. “He’s here.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve only spoken to him twice.”

“By phone or in person?”

“Both.” She sniffed and wiped away her tears. She held out her hand to Steve and he put his coffee cup in it. She took several sips while I waited.

Finally, she began to speak. “His name is Virgil Kelley. Fifteen years ago, we had a brief fling. It didn’t last long. He left town and I figured it was over. Then I found out I was pregnant.”

“His?” I asked.

She glanced at me sharply. “I was young and stupid, detective, but I was not a whore. There was no doubt as to who the father was.”

“Did you tell him right away?”

“Of course,” she snapped, then paused. “Well, not right away. It took a few months to hear from him. Then we talked about it. He said he’d be a lousy father. I figured I could raise her alone. Young and stupid, like I said.

“He sent some money. Quite a lot, actually, though there was a period where he didn’t send much at all. Even so, for that first couple of years, I only had to work part-time and was able to go to school on grants. It worked out, I suppose. I sent him pictures of Fawn every year, but he never called or wrote letters. Just sent money with a note that said ‘thank you for the photos.’”

“How long did this go on?”

Andie met my eyes. “It never stopped.”

I motioned toward Steve. “After you married?”

“He still sent money. Of course, we didn’t need it then. I put it in an account for Fawn. It was supposed to be her nest egg. She never knew about it. Or him.”

“Fawn was three when you two were married?”

Both Steve and Andie nodded.

“Did you know about this?” I asked Steve.

He half-shrugged. “I knew about him.”

“Did you know he was in town?”

“Yes.”

“Did you call him after Fawn’s death?” I asked Andie.

She shook her head. “I didn’t have a number for him. I never have had one. All I have is a post office box in California. So I sent the newspaper clipping.”

“When?”

“Two days after you came here to tell us about Fawn.”

“And when did he come here?”

“He never came to the house. He called about a week ago. Then I met him at a restaurant downtown.”

“Which one?”

“Aphrodite’s. We talked.”

“And he told you why he was here. And what he was planning to do.” It wasn’t a question, but Andie nodded anyway. “When was this?”

“A week ago.”

“What’s his story?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know much. He works for some mafia type down in California. He said he fixed problems.”

My eyes widened. “Mafia type? He’s a hitter?”

A trace of a smile touched her lips. “I asked the same thing. He said I read too many mysteries.”

“Then what kind of problems does he fix?”

“I think…the kind that put people in the hospital,” Andie answered. “But he isn’t a killer.”

“He told you that?”

She nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“What else did he say?”

“Not much. Just that he was going to fix this problem, too.”

“Mrs. Taylor, I need to find this guy before he kills more people. Before he — “

“More people?”

“Yeah,” I said. “More people. He’s already killed a guy.”

She gulped air in and let it out in a moan. Her gaze jumped between Steve and me. “Was it…”

“Fawn’s killer? I don’t know. I doubt it.”

Andie looked back down at her knees, that unfocused look in her eyes again.

“What can you tell me besides his name?” I asked her after a few moments of silence.

“I don’t know.”

“What town is he from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you send the pictures?”

“Sacramento.” She gave me the box number and zip code.

“You have it memorized?”

She glanced at Steve. “I didn’t want to leave it laying around.”

“I see. Who’s his boss?”

“He didn’t say.”

I sighed. “Did he use any other names? Did he have tattoos? Was he arrested here in River City?”

She shook her head slowly, then said, “He said he was in prison for three years.”

“When?”

“Sometime around when Fawn was born.”

“Do you remember where?”

“I don’t know if he ever said. Somewhere in Southern California, I guess.”

I leaned back and watched her. She stared at her knees with unfocused eyes. Her lower lip was quivering slightly and tears had formed in her eyes, but didn’t fall.

“Can you think of anything else?”

Andie didn’t respond. I took that as her answer and rose from my chair.

Steve rose with me and followed me toward the door. He opened it and held it for me. “Are you going to arrest my wife?”

“I think she’s been through enough,” I answered and left.

“Virgil Kelley,” I told Lindsay. “Write it down.”

He scratched it out on his notepad, pausing at the last name. “E-Y or just Y?”

“I don’t know. Try both. Run him local and WACIC, just in case. Then do him through NCIC. The records might be fifteen years old, so if you don’t get a hit, I need you to call California Department of Corrections directly and get someone to do a hand search or whatever it takes. I want to know who Virgil Kelley is.”

“Okay.” Lindsay wrote down everything I said. “Who is this guy? A suspect?”

“Maybe. Don’t get ahead of yourself, though, Lindsay. Okay? Just run the check for me and stick with it until you get some answers.”

“Will do.” He gave me a fraternal clap on the shoulder and headed back to his desk.

I sat down and looked at my case files, turning the pages but not reading. My mind was whirring.

Virgil Kelley was Fawn’s father. He’s some sort of criminal, a leg-breaker or something. He got the article from Andie Taylor at his PO Box in Sacramento. The mail would take a day or two to get it there. By then, the murder would’ve been four or five days old. Then how long goes by before he checks that post office box? Either way, it took two weeks for him to get up here.

I picked up my phone and called Billings at his desk. He answered on the third ring.

“Billings,” he said in a bored voice.

“Ted, it’s Tower.” He didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I need you to check something for me on this case.”

“I’m kinda busy,” he muttered.

“On a homicide?” I asked him.

“No,” he sighed. “Go ahead.”

“I gave Lindsay a name. I need you to check that name and any aliases he finds for a PO Box in Sacramento, California.” I gave him the box number.

There was a long pause. Then Billings said, “Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Do you have any idea how many PO Boxes there must be in a city that size?”

“Probably a lot.”

“Yeah, no shit, a lot.”

“I need it done and I can’t do it myself.”

“Well, I’ll put my world on hold then,” he said and slammed the phone in my ear.

I replaced the receiver. It rang almost immediately.

“Detective Tower.”

“John? Matt Westboard.”

“Yeah?”

“You left me a message to call you.”

“I did? Oh yeah. The Field Interview on Serena Gonzalez.”

“You’re investigating that one, huh?”

“Yeah. I was just wondering if you actually had her hooking or just walking through the area looking like a hooker.”

He paused, thinking. “I don’t remember her ever contacting cars or anything, if that’s what you mean. She was dressed slutty, but she said she worked at the Club Tip Top. At the time, I didn’t believe her. She was too good-looking for that place.”

“Did she say anything about anyone bothering her? Anyone suspicious?”

“Nah. She was a little pissed that I stopped her. Told me she wasn’t a puta. I did the FI, anyway.”

“You stop anyone out there stalking the working girls?”

“No. Just the usual creeps looking for a date.”

“What about the Brotherhood? How active have they been on your shift?”

“Kinda quiet, really. At least until this guy Sammy G. turned up dead. Now everywhere they go, it’s in a swarm of bikes. Three or four at a time.”

“I meant with the girls, though. Any of them suspicious?”

“Not that I saw,” Westboard said.

I thanked him and hung up.

I picked up the phone and called Renee.

“I know it’s a long shot,” I told her, “But can you run the moniker of M? I’m looking for a black male, twenties.”

I heard the tapping of her keyboard. “What’s the connection?”

“The hooker that came in, Toni, told me that Fawn had a boyfriend that supplied her crack. Or hooked her up with a dealer. Something. Anyway, she called him M.”

“M, huh?”

“Yeah. Why? You get a hit?”

“No, no hit. Well, actually about twenty-seven hits, with another forty-two variations. M is apparently a popular letter.”

“Money. Money starts with M.”

“Exactly. Murder, too. But here’s something else interesting for you. On Wednesday of last week, the Sheriff’s Department had an assault out at the Denny’s on Edward Road. A young black male was beaten badly and is still in a coma. He had a little bit of a drug history.”

I brought my fingers to the bridge of my nose and rubbed, knowing I wasn’t going to like the rest of this. “What was his name?”

“Malcom.”

After I hung up the phone, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the white rectangles on the ceiling. Things were coming into focus and I walked myself through the process silently.

Virgil Kelley gets the clipping about his daughter’s death.

He comes to River City and contacts Andie Taylor. What did she tell him? What or who did she give him that she didn’t give me? Or did he just get different results with the same leads?

Either way, he finds out about M. Malcom. He gets what he needs from Malcom and then beats him senseless. The assault doesn’t even make a blip on my radar screen. It’s in the County, not the City. It’s not a murder, not a female and not in the Corridor.

Then what? Virgil skulks around East Sprague and gleans information from the hookers and crack heads out there. I knew for sure that he talked to Grace. I wondered who else I’d interviewed that he’d also talked to. Probably more than a few people, I guessed.

How did he find out Toni knew about Fawn? Someone must’ve pointed her out. She tells him about Sammy G. He must’ve figured Sammy G. would know who killed Fawn. Maybe he thought it was Sammy G. that killed her. Hell, maybe it was.

No, I decided. A guy that won’t smack a woman in the face for business reasons is not my killer. Too practical. Not sociopathic enough.

When Virgil finds Sammy G., what happens? Something bad, because Virgil killed him. But what did he tell him first?

Did he tell him about Rowdy? Because that sick bastard was on my short list.

I felt a tinge of shame. Browning was working the Sammy G. case and had zero leads. Here I was, ten feet away, with a pretty damn good idea who iced his victim and I wasn’t saying a word. I could help out the County detectives with their Malcom case, too, but I wasn’t saying a word. I had two dead girls, almost assuredly killed by the same sick individual who was not going to stop but would undoubtedly kill again, but I wasn’t saying a word. I had a vigilante who was responsible for a death and a good beating, who was certainly planning to kill at least one more person before he was through, but I wasn’t saying a word.

Because this was my case. My responsibility.

Monday, April 19 th Davenport Hotel, Late Morning

VIRGIL

I woke up to the smell of coffee brewing. My eyes adjusted to the light coming out of the bathroom, which illuminated only a portion of the room. The various signals of pain were still there on my body. I ran my fingers over the cuts and bruises and the improvised stitches.

“Hey,” I said softly, my voice strangely hoarse.

Gina leaned her head out of the bathroom.

“You awake?”

“Yeah,” I said and pushed myself up in bed.

“Want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

Gina’s head disappeared in the bathroom. A moment later she walked out with a cup of coffee and carefully handed it to me. She was wearing a faded pair of Levi’s and a WAZZU sweatshirt.

“Where’d you get the clothes?”

“From home. After you fell asleep, I took off and grabbed a change of clothes before coming back.”

I looked around the room. “Did you spend the night here?”

She smiled at me and crossed her arms.

“Did we…?”

“Like you could have?”

I shrugged and then took a sip of the coffee. The hot liquid slashed against the broken teeth in my mouth and I almost dropped the cup. “Goddamn it,” I muttered.

“Your teeth?”

“Shit, that hurt,” I said and put the cup down on the nightstand.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by an aircraft carrier.” I pulled back a bandage on my left arm and touched the stitches holding the razor cut together. “Good job on the sewing.”

She pointed at the stitches. “That’s the grossest things I’ve ever done.”

“But you did it.”

“I almost puked.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Did you?”

“No, I said almost.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I’m not a nurse or a doctor. I sewed up your back, your arm and your leg. I refused to sew up that gash on your face.”

My fingers gingerly touched my cheek and felt a bandage. “Was it bad?”

Gina nodded at me.

“Let’s see. Torn up face, fat lip, broken teeth.” My fingers wiggled my nose. “At least that’s not broken.”

“You’ve got a black eye around your left one. You’ve got a good sized cut through your right eyebrow. Bruises all over your body. There’s an especially nasty one near your kidney.”

I touched my back and thought about Mikey’s fist hammering on my kidney.

“Those cuts should really be checked out by a doctor.”

I shook my head. “Can’t do that.”

Gina sat down on the bed next to me. “What are you going to do next?”

“Lay here for a while and lick my wounds.”

She smiled softly at me. “After that?”

“I don’t know. I guess that depends on what’s going on with the Brotherhood.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means, three of their crew are dead in a hotel room down on Sprague.”

Gina’s eyes never changed. She must have come to terms with the killings last night.

“Would you turn on the TV? Find a local channel and let’s wait for the news.”

She grabbed the remote, flicked the button until she was on channel 2.

“You want some breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

She tossed the remote on to the bed next to me. “What sounds good?”

“An Egg McMuffin.”

Gina crinkled her nose. “From McDonalds?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only for you.”

“There’s a wad of bills in my pants from last night.”

“Not anymore. That’s what you gave me to buy the supplies to clean you up.” She softly patted my leg. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

I read the entire Monday version of the newspaper, finished off two Sausage McMuffins, two hash brown patties and two cups of coffee before I ever climbed out of bed. With each bite and each sip of coffee, I was careful to avoid the broken teeth in my mouth.

When I finally stood up I had to steady myself on the wall.

“You okay?” Gina asked and came to my side.

“Shaky.”

“You look like hell.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

I shuffled into the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror. Bandages and Band-Aids covered my entire body. What wasn’t covered was black and blue or swollen red.

After I took a shower, Gina helped me change the bandages. She watched me carefully shave and helped me get in to a pair of black slacks and a grey button-down shirt.

When I was finally dressed, Gina kissed me soft on the cheek. “I’ve gotta run. If you want, I’ll be back later.”

“I’d like that.”

She smiled and hurried out of the hotel room. When the door closed, I checked behind the television cabinet and found all three guns were still there. With a careful pull, I freed one of my Glocks. I stuffed it into the back of my pants and grabbed my jacket.

Downstairs, I walked over to the payphone and watched a tall, thin socialite gab away. She must have been in her early sixties, but looked like she’d spent a fair amount of time with a plastic surgeon. The skin around her face and neck were pulled tight and she wore a short haircut that did its best to hide any scars from surgery. The gal was in dark blue slacks with a yellow blazer. Big, gaudy rings covered a number of her fingers while a shiny silver bracelet wrapped itself around her left wrist.

I grabbed a seat nearby and waited for her to finish her conversation. After several minutes, she hung up and hurried away. I walked over to the phone, lifted the receiver and tapped out what seemed to be an endless stream of numbers.

“Bobo’s House of Chicken,” the familiar thick voice announced.

I put my arm on top of the phone and rested my head on my shoulder. “Jay, it’s me.”

“Virg?”

“Yeah. I’m at the same number as before.”

I hung up the phone and continued to rest my head on my shoulder.

When the phone rang, I snatched it off the cradle. “This is Virgil.”

“What the hell are you still doing up there?” Irritation laced Mr. Saccamano’s voice.

“I’ve almost got it wrapped up.”

“Almost?”

“I’ve found her killer.”

Saccamano was quiet for a moment as the information sunk in. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “Then he’s dead?”

“He will be.”

“Make it quick, kid.”

“Yeah,” I said softly and hung up the phone.

Tuesday, April 20 th 0730 hrs 507 W. Corbin

TOWER

I adjusted my shoulder holster rig as I walked down the hall to the kitchen. I could smell coffee and something cooking. When I entered the kitchen, Teri was wearing a fluffy white robe and buttering an English muffin.

“I made some coffee.”

“I can smell it.”

She glanced at me then, her face tightening.

“It smells good,” I offered in apology.

She nodded slowly and went back to buttering the muffin. I pulled a coffee mug from the cupboard and poured.

“You want one of these?” she asked.

I shrugged.

We sat at the table and ate in silence. The coffee was strong and good.

“Good coffee,” I told her, finishing my breakfast.

“Thanks.” She looked directly at me. “Look, John, maybe it was uncool for me to ask you about staying here. I — “

I shook my head, holding up my hand. “No, it wasn’t.”

She stopped and watched me.

“I was just surprised,” I told her.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve had some time to think about it and I think it’s a good idea. It makes sense. For Ben and for you, I mean.”

Teri’s face spread into a large smile. “Thanks, John. Really, I mean it. Thanks a lot.”

“Sure.”

She flashed me a smile and took a drink from her coffee mug.

My throat was dry, so I sipped my coffee, too.

“He’s a ghost.”

Lindsay had pulled up a chair next to me and flopped his notepad down on my desk. I ignored his messy, looping handwriting on the paper and turned my gaze to him.

“You didn’t find anything?”

“Oh, I found out a lot. I was here until nine o’clock last night finding things out. Even Ted worked until seven.”

“Run it for me,” I told him.

“California Department of Corrections was real helpful. When I finally got them to run the record check for me, the only white Virgil Kelley they could find that had served time and wasn’t currently incarcerated was a seventy-year-old from Sherman Oaks, California.”

“Maybe he’s an escapee, then. A walk-away.”

“I thought of that,” Lindsay said. “I asked them to do a head check. That went over like a Baby Ruth in a swimming pool. But — “ he held up a fax, “they did it and reported all accounted for.”

“So it’s an alias.”

“Probably. I had them run it that way and they kicked me over to some other records division. I got the bitchiest woman this side of my wife. We went through twelve different records of guys who are white and your guy’s age that have used Virgil Kelley as an alias. Three sounded good and I had her fax photos.”

He handed me three sheets of paper. I thumbed through them. One was way too short and the second was too thin. The third was an older photo, but was a near match for physicals. I held it up. “This could be him. I have a couple people I could show it to.”

Lindsay shook his head. “Won’t do any good. That Virgil Kelley is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yep. Died in a car accident in 1984 on his way home from a Van Halen concert. Bitchface pulled the police report and everything.”

I thought about that for a second. “You think…”

Lindsay nodded. “Yessir, I do. I think your dude snatched a dead guy’s name.”

“They’re about the same size and build…”

“Hell,” Lindsay said, “from what you told me, this dude could go to the dead guy’s thirty-year high school reunion and fool everybody.”

“Then we’re no closer.”

“Nope.”

“What’d Billings get?”

“He didn’t get jack.”

“Big surprise,” I muttered.

“He called a lot of places,” Lindsay said. “He really did.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

He half-nodded, half-shrugged. “You said this guy was hooked up with the Mafia or whatever somewhere in Southern California.”

“Yeah, supposedly.”

“Well, I talked to LAPD Organized Crime last night while Bitchface had me on hold and afterward, too. Spoke with some detective who really knew his business. I asked him about Virgil Kelley and he didn’t know of anyone by that name. He said that he did know of seven or eight different guys named Virgil who were hired muscle.”

“Really. Any of them our guy?”

“I described him physically and he laughed at me. He said I just described every white guy who was hired muscle in the world.”

“What the hell, it was a long shot anyway. Southern California could be L.A., it could be San Diego. He could have lied to Andie Taylor and really be out of Vegas or Phoenix or who knows where.”

“It’s worse than that,” Lindsay said. “I asked the guy what his gang situation was and he told me that he had more gangs than Baskin Robbins had flavors. They’ve got Crips, Bloods, El Rukns, BGDs — “

“Black gangs. I don’t think this guy would run with blacks.”

“He had plenty of whites, too. Bikers, some guy name Torgenson, another guy name Saccamano and some other weird name that sounded Hungarian. And then he’s got the Russians, just like we do here. Plus the Asian gangs, who he said were pushing into everybody else’s territory.”

I sighed. “Any idea who Virgil Kelley is out of all of this?”

Lindsay looked defeated. “No. Like I said, the guy’s a ghost.”

“Maybe I need a gypsy and a crystal ball, then.”

“You want me to have the LAPD guy run every mafia muscle named Virgil up and send pictures?”

“I’m sure it’ll take a while, but yeah.”

“He said he couldn’t get to it ‘til next week, but he’d do it if we asked.”

“Yeah, do it.”

I drove in silence. I had sent Lindsay out with the picture of dead Mr. Kelley to start checking all the local motels. Maybe we’d locate him that way, staying at some dive just off the freeway.

I cruised out of the downtown area and down Sprague. I pulled slowly up to the sidewalk about two car lengths west of the BSC clubhouse. I sat in my car for a while, watching the clubhouse. Four bikes were parked out front.

I reached into my glove box and removed a small, five-shot.38 revolver in an ankle holster. I strapped it on and tried to remember why I wasn’t bringing a partner.

“Same reason you’re not telling radio dispatch where you’re at,” I muttered to the empty car. “’Cause as soon as someone else gets wind of where your case is at, you are done. Screwed.”

I took a deep breath and exited the patrol car. I ignored the cameras above the clubhouse and stepped up to the door. Standing to the side, I gave the door a graveyard knock. On the third knock, the door swung open.

“What the fuck do you want?”

A long-haired, bearded dirtbag stuck his head out the door and stared at me with contrived craziness. I flashed my badge.

He wasn’t impressed. “So what?”

“I want to talk to you and whoever else is home.”

“You got a warrant?”

“No.”

“Then get one,” he said and slammed the door shut.

I stepped forward and caught the door with my foot before he got it closed all the way. It bounced back into him and he let out a curse.

“You got a fucking death wish?” he growled at me.

“I could come back with a warrant in half an hour. You might be able to flush a lot of your stuff in that thirty minutes, at least until the City shuts off your water. But you’ll still be holding some of it. Besides, it’s kinda hard to flush a gun.”

He blinked, sneering and rubbing his cheek, but said nothing.

“I’m here because I’m working on the Sammy G. case.”

“Well, fuck, then,” he said. “Why didn’t you speak up right away?”

I took a step forward, but he held up his hand. “No, no, no. No pork in the clubhouse without a warrant.”

“How am I supposed to investigate this case if I can’t come in?”

“Wait here. We’ll come out.”

“I’m parked over there. I’ll wait by my car.”

“Whatever.” His eyes narrowed at me. “You know, we already talked to that other cop the day this happened. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“Detective Browning is my partner,” I told him.

“Yeah, Browning. That was it.” He eyed me with suspicion. “What else you wanna know? ‘Cause I don’t think you sonsabitches are going to deal with this. I think you’re glad a brother is dead and it’s gonna take another brother to make things right.”

“If someone turns up dead, I’ll have to remember you said it.” I turned to walk away.

“You really got something on the guy that killed Sammy G.?”

I pointed at my car without looking at him or breaking stride.

It took them ten minutes to make up their minds. They came out one at a time, timid hairballs glancing around as they walked tentatively toward me like they expected a SWAT team to descend from black helicopters and scoop them up.

I interviewed three, doing my best to bluff my way through the interview. It must’ve worked, because they kept coming. The fourth one was Rowdy.

I knew it was him as soon as he approached. Grace had pegged him perfectly. He looked like a long-haired Howdy Doody.

Rowdy tried harder than the others to swagger as he approached my car. He made a show of smoking, trying to look tough. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw something there I didn’t like. Something broken.

“You the pig looking into Sammy G.?”

“I’m the investigating detective. Think we could drop the pork references long enough to get through an interview?”

Rowdy shrugged and took a hard drag from his cigarette. His eyes flitted up and down my body and to my car and back again.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Why?”

“You know the drill. Just tell me if you have a warrant or not. If it isn’t a felony, I won’t worry about it.”

“No warrants. Just don’t like talking to the Man.”

“You think I like talking to you? We’re both just doing what’s necessary here, all right?”

He shrugged again. “Name’s Rowdy.”

“Real name?”

“Yeah, I got one.”

I stared at him for a moment. After a little while, his defiance melted and he shrugged and flicked his burning cigarette into the street.

“It’s Cody. Cody Heinz.”

“See, Cody?” I gave him a tight smile. “Now we can be friends.”

Cody grunted and lit another cigarette.

I asked all of the same questions I’d asked the others, but barely listened to his answers. Instead, I watched his mannerisms as he spoke. How he shifted back and forth on his feet. How his eyes held contempt and sickness all at the same time. As he answered my questions, I made him as the omega wolf of the clubhouse. He was the one that everyone else picked on when there weren’t any outsiders available.

“You used to do Sammy’s job, didn’t you?” I asked him, interrupting him in mid-sentence.

He stammered out the final few words of his last sentence, then stared at me in surprise.

“Didn’t you?”

“For a little while,” he muttered, reaching for another cigarette. I watched as he shook it out of the pack, then drew it out with his lips.

“Fawn Taylor,” I said to him.

His face froze.

“Serena Gonzalez,” I said, pressing.

His lips parted and the cigarette fell to the sidewalk.

Oh Jesus, I thought. I have him.

Rowdy’s lips moved but no words came out right away. Finally he got some breath behind them. “Who-who’s those people?”

Careful now, I told myself. Don’t screw it up.

“Two dead girls.”

“The, uh, the two from the newspaper?” He swallowed twice and pulled out another cigarette, leaving the other one on the ground. He managed to light his cancer stick with a trembling hand.

“We think we know who did it. We’ve got an idea anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Problem is, he’s black.”

“Black?”

“And he’s laying low. Meanwhile, my boss doesn’t believe a minority could commit a crime like this.”

Rowdy took a wavering drag of his cigarette. “Doesn’t think a nigger can kill a chick?”

“He doesn’t want us focus on a black guy right from the start. Even if some of the evidence points at this guy.”

Rowdy smoked, watching me.

“While we’re looking for this creep who probably killed these two girls, I’ve gotta go through the elimination process.”

“Elimination process?”

“Yeah. I have to find as many white people as I can who ever had contact with these dead girls and eliminate them as suspects.”

“I’m a suspect?”

“No. Unless you want to call the eleven other white guys suspects, too. What I’m doing is jumping through political hoops. Talk to enough white people, take them through the elimination process and then when the killer just happens to be black, well that’s just how it goes. It’s not like we didn’t try.”

“Sounds like bullshit.”

“It is.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s also a waste of space down at the lab.”

“How’s that?”

“Blood samples for the elimination process.”

“Everybody except for one guy. He’d been a john and I guess he was with this girl Fawn like three times in two days. He didn’t want to give blood.”

“No?”

“He’s still sitting in jail. I checked him closely after he refused, but he came up clean. I don’t know what his beef was with giving up some DNA.”

“What’d you arrest him for?”

“Suspicion of murder. What else? Guy knows the victim and refuses to be eliminated as a suspect. That’s enough reasonable suspicion to haul him in.”

Rowdy reached for another cigarette. “I didn’t really know either of those girls,” he said as he lit up.

“C’mon, Rowdy. Don’t lie to me. I know you didn’t know the Hispanic girl, Serena. But you knew Fawn. Sammy G. collected from her.”

“So?”

“So, he collected from her and you sampled her.”

He didn’t answer.

“Listen, I don’t care. She’s dead. I couldn’t do anyone for having sex with her as a minor or as a juvenile prostitute. Those cases don’t go unless the victim wants them to or a cop sees it happen. But don’t try to tell me you didn’t know her. I’m trying to clear you.”

Rowdy drew a deep drag and let it out. “I mighta fucked her once or twice, but I thought she was eighteen.”

“She looked it.”

“She said it,” he answered. “But that’s all I knew of her. She was some whore, that’s it.”

“Let me ask you this. You ever see her around black guys? Any black guys hassling her? You might have witnessed something that can help.”

“I didn’t see shit. Besides, them niggers are afraid to even drive through here.”

“All right. Just thought I’d ask.” I glanced at my watch. “Anyway, if you come down today, I’ll have the phlebotomist draw a blood sample and we’ll add you to the other eleven eliminated white guys.”

Rowdy stood still, staring at me. He rubbed his nose, then took another drag. Finally, he said, “How about tomorrow?”

I shrugged slowly. “We can do it tomorrow, but sooner is better.”

Rowdy took another long drag. “I need to take care of some things today. Tomorrow is better.”

“What time?”

Rowdy shrugged. “Eleven. I sleep late. And I need to let some stuff get out of my system before I give any blood to the cops.”

“We won’t be screening it for controlled substances.”

“I might just talk to my lawyer, too,” Rowdy added, watching me.

“Okay. He’ll know what’s going on here, if he’s got any experience at all.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Rowdy watched me and I watched him back.

“Feels kinda weird, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“What?”

“Cops and the Brotherhood working together. Never thought I’d see it, but I guess you never know.”

“I guess not.”

“Thanks, Rowdy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” He took another deep drag, then turned and trudged back to the clubhouse, his cocky jaunt all but gone.

Tuesday, April 20 th Sprague Avenue, Late Morning

VIRGIL

The cop was at the door talking to one of the Brotherhood through the front door of their clubhouse. I’d seen him before. He was the one poking around the Club Tip Top. I smiled because he looked frustrated, really frustrated. He waved his arms around as he talked, occasionally pointed at the biker inside the clubhouse. Finally, the cop turned around and walked back to his car and waited.

“Wonder what he wants down there?” she muttered.

My eyes shifted back to Grace, the prostitute I talked with a few days before. She wore tight blue jeans and a tighter pink sweater. We were standing in the doorway of a closed television repair shop.

“Who knows.” I said finally.

“By the way, what happened to your face?”

“I fell.”

“Looks like you had a fight with your pimp.”

I smiled, but kept my eyes focused on the activity a couple of blocks away. A long-hair stepped out of the Brotherhood’s clubhouse and wandered over to the cop. His head turned up and down the street, never focusing in on Grace or me.

“Who’s that?” I asked with a nod down the street.

“That’s Detective Tower.”

“No, the biker.”

“That’s Marco.”

Grace jumped up and down slightly to keep warm. “I’m on the clock now.”

“What?”

“If you’re gonna tie up my time answering questions, then you’re gonna have to pay for it.”

“Fine.”

I watched the cop’s interaction with Marco and he seemed totally disinterested. His arms were crossed and he sat on the fender of his unmarked patrol car.

“How did you know the cop’s name?”

Grace stopped her jumping. “What?”

“You called him Detective Tower. How did you know his name?”

Grace studied me before answering. “He came by a few days ago and chatted with me.”

“What was he after?”

“He was looking for the killer of a couple of girls. I think he was also looking for you.”

“What?”

“He asked about you, baby.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He asked if anyone else was looking into the girl’s murder.”

“What did you tell him?”

Grace shrugged. “Nothing.”

I grabbed her arm and squeezed. “What did you tell him?”

“Oh, baby that hurts,” she said playfully

I squeezed her arm harder.

Her face turned dark. “Nothin’. I swear, I told him nothin’.”

My eyes searched hers for the truth. Years of lying to men for a living made it impossible to prove she wasn’t playing it the same with me. I let go of her arm and turned my focus back to the street. Marco shrugged and walked back inside the clubhouse. Before the clubhouse door shut, another biker stepped out and walked over to the cop.

“Who’s that one?”

Grace squinted as she stared down the street. “Hooper.”

I nodded and kept watching.

Grace put her arm on my back and rubbed lightly. “Who are you lookin’ for, baby?”

“No one.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“No.”

She dropped her hand from my back and stopped her cooing.

“We gonna stand here all day?”

“What do you care? You’re getting paid.”

“People are gonna start watchin’.”

I glanced around the neighborhood. The few people walking in the neighborhood were focused on the spectacle down the street, not us. “They’re watching the show, just like us.”

From inside my jacket, I pulled out a pack of Camels.

“Can I get one of those?”

I shook a cigarette free for Grace and one for myself. While I stuffed the pack away in my jacket, she waited patiently for me to light her up. I flicked my Zippo and she inhaled deep and hard on the cigarette.

I turned my attention back down the street. The cop still was seated on his fender with his arms crossed over his chest. He was obviously busting their chops for some reason.

Grace exhaled some smoke in my direction. “Where you from, honey?”

”Nowhere.”

Grace dropped her cigarette to the ground and smashed it with the high-heel of her red shoe.

From down the street, Hooper waved dismissively at the cop and walked inside the clubhouse. A few ticks of the clock later and another punk strutted out. The cop and he talked for a moment. Before I could ask Grace who the latest biker was, the cop stood up and the punk took a half step back. The cop’s body language was terrible. He looked like a novice poker player who’d just been dealt a straight flush.

“Who’s that?”

Grace’s hand slid up my triceps before she whispered. “That, baby, is Rowdy.”

My body went hard and my heart crashed against my chest.

“Don’t do nothin’ stupid, sugar.” Grace’s voice was soft in my ear and her fingernails dug into my arm. “I know that’s who you’re lookin’ for.”

I glared at her.

“That’s who he’s lookin’ for, too.”

“What?”

Grace pointed toward the show we were both watching. “That’s who the detective kept asking me about.”

Down the street, Tower shifted his weight repeatedly, like a boxer in slow motion. Rowdy’s head was on a swivel. He looked up and down the street constantly. In the short time he talked with Tower he’d already smoked four cigarettes.

“Did the cop say why he wanted to talk with Rowdy?”

“Just that he was lookin’ for him.”

Tower and Rowdy finished their conversation and Rowdy hurried back in side. The detective got into his car, flipped a U-Turn and headed back into downtown.

I reached into my pocket and grabbed my money clip. From it, I peeled off three twenties. “Thanks for the info, Grace.”

“Any time, sugar.”

I jogged back to the Club Tip Top, looking over my shoulder as I ran. I could barely see the front of the BSC clubhouse when I got to the bar. With my foot, I pushed open the door and stood in the doorway. From inside the club, a loud male voice yelled, “Shut the fucking door.”

I stayed where I was and watched the BSC clubhouse until Gina showed up. We stepped outside of the bar and watched the clubhouse together.

“Did you find who you’re looking for?”

“Yeah, I did. I need you to get your car. Bring it around so you can watch the front of the clubhouse. Do it a block away so you can see who leaves.”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes intently focused on mine.

“When a guy that looks like Howdy Doody comes out, I want you to follow him and tell me where he goes.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“No.”

“Then where will I find you?”

“Back at the Davenport.”

Gina touched my arm. “What are you going to do?”

“Wrap up a loose end.”

The little dancer eyed me suspiciously.

“Trust me.”

“This Howdy Doody guy, is he the one who killed Serena?”

“And my daughter.”

Gina nodded once in understanding and hurried away. A couple minutes later her Toyota turned onto Sprague from Napa and drove towards the clubhouse. When her car stopped, I started jogging eastward on Sprague.

“Dookie,” I yelled across the street.

The skinny black kid ran across the street.

“Remember me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Suck your dick?”

I shook my head at him. “Where’s Rolo?”

Dookie shrugged. His eyes weren’t focused and he swayed as he stood in front of me.

“Find Rolo, tell him to meet me at The Hole.”

“Why should I help you?”

I leaned over him. “Tell Rolo or when I find him I’ll tell how you wouldn’t help a friend of his.”

Dookie stepped back away from me and looked around. He eventually walked off to the north and I kept heading east towards The Hole.

Forty-minutes later, Rolo strolled in through the bar with Rhonda on one arm and his cane in the other. They walked over to my table and Rolo slid into the booth across from me while Rhonda dropped in next to me. Both of them studied the damage to my face.

“What happened to you?” the big man asked.

“I fell.”

“Must have been some fall,” the pimp said.

I flashed my eyes to Rhonda and then back to Rolo. “This is business.”

The pimp jerked his head toward the bar and Rhonda slid out of the booth.

“What’s the scoop?”

“I need a favor.”

“Favor’s cost.”

“They always do.”

Rolo leaned back and crossed his arms. “You responsible for Sammy G. gettin’ deep-sixed.”

“You a cop?”

Rolo smacked the table and laughed. “What’s the favor?”

“Do you know anyone good with fire?”

Rolo scratched his chin with a massive hand. “I could find someone. Why?”

“I need a hotel room torched. Room 204 at the Palms.”

“204,” the big pimp repeated.

“The Palms.”

“I got it.”

“Do it from the outside. You don’t want anyone walking into the room. Got it?”

Rolo snapped his fingers a few times as he thought. “How big of a flame do you want?”

“Hot as hell and as big as a volcano.”

Rhonda strutted over with a drink for Rolo and put it down in front of him. “Can I come back?”

Rolo patted her ass. “Still talkin’ so start walkin’.”

Rhonda shrugged and walked away. Rolo leaned his massive frame across the table. “This thing you propose is going to cost you large.”

“I understand.”

Rolo’s tongue darted out of his mouth and licked his lips. “Ten thousand.”

All right.”

Rolo leaned back and crossed his arms. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

I pulled out a wad of cash from my wallet. “That’s five hundred. A down payment.”

“I ain’t no bank. You bring the cash before the job is done.”

“Schedule it for tonight. It needs to be done. I’ll be back with the rest of the cash.”

I slipped out of the booth and walked up to the bar. The bartender walked over to me and turned an ear in my direction.

“Call River City Taxi. Ask for Axel. Tell him to pick me up here.”

“Any music today, sir?”

We were headed westbound on the freeway toward downtown.

“No, thanks. Axel. I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to deliver a package.”

Axel checked me out in his rearview mirror. “I like you, sir. I do. But I don’t feel too comfortable with that idea.”

“Relax, Axel, it’s not anything illegal.”

Axel flicked his eyes up to the mirror and back to the road.

“I’m not sure.”

“Listen, here’s the deal. I need to go the Bank of America downtown. I’m going to make a withdrawal and I’m going to give it to you to take it back to The Hole. I’ll pay you to take it back.”

“How do you know you can trust me?”

“Axel, I know where you work. I know you’re a professional. And I’ll pay you enough so I can trust you.”

Axel nodded and took the Monroe Street off-ramp into downtown.

The digital clock showed 2:15 AM when there was a soft rap on the door. I got up from my chair with my Glock in hand and stepped quietly over to the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

I opened the door and let Gina in. When the door shut I snapped the throw-latch in to place.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Rowdy left pretty quick after you did and I ended up following him to a home in Hillyard.”

“Why didn’t you come and get me then?”

“Because as soon as he got off of his motorcycle he jumped into a white van and was off again.”

“You followed him?”

“He made a stop at a house over in West Central.”

“Where’s that?”

“Not too far from here. But it’s clean across town from where he left his bike.”

“Why didn’t you come and get me then?”

She dropped into the chair and crossed her legs. “The house he went into had so much traffic coming and out that I figured he was there to score some dope. I didn’t think he’d be there that long.”

“How long was he there?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

Gina shrugged. “I was afraid if he left I’d never know where he’d end up.”

“What did he do after he left the drug house?”

“He went down to Sprague again and cruised the streets, talking to some of the prostitutes.”

I pushed myself up on to my elbows. “Did he find anything?”

“A couple of the girls came up to him and chatted, but none of them got into his van. He only did that for a bit, then headed home. I waited there for an hour when all of the lights when out. That’s when I came here.”

“What address?”

“2814 East Asbury.”

I need your car.”

She handed me the keys without an argument, but gave me a disapproving look.

“What?”

Gina pointed at the keys. “Don’t wreck it.”

I found 2814 East Asbury using the directions Gina gave me. It was shortly after three in the morning and the white van was gone. The motorcycle was parked in the driveway.

I sat in the darkness of the neighborhood for an hour before finally giving up and heading back to the hotel.

Wednesday, April 21 st 1045 hrs Investigative Division

TOWER

I sat at my desk, feeling as helpless as I’d ever felt, tapping my pen and looking at the clock every few seconds. I glanced from the clock to the phone, willing it to ring. The Front Desk called whenever someone arrived for an appointment. I resisted the urge to wait for him out there. I had to keep things looking low-key.

Rowdy’s rap sheet was spread out in front of me on the desk. Taken in a vacuum, it wasn’t very impressive. But when I factored in what I thought he did to Fawn and Serena, things began to fall into place. He was a foster kid, which meant he got bounced around from house to house. You want to convince a kid no one loves him? Turn him into a human pinball at an early age and bounce him around the State’s foster program.

I glanced at the clock. About four seconds had passed.

According to his juvenile record, Rowdy’s first arrest was at eight. He set the neighbor’s mailbox on fire. Not particularly imaginative, but I suppose every young pyro thinks it is. Less than a year later, he was arrested for animal cruelty. The report said he tortured a kitten at a foster home. The foster parents kept the kitten and got rid of him.

In Washington State, a child is presumed incapable of committing a crime under the age of twelve. The burden rests with the State to show that the child knew the difference between right and wrong and consciously did something he knew to be wrong. In both of these early arrests, the officer would have had to meet that standard and apparently, he did.

There was another animal cruelty pop when he was fifteen. He chopped off a dog’s leg with an axe and watched as the poor thing howled and ran in circles until it bled to death.

After that came the standard mess of petty thefts, minor assaults and a couple of burglaries. He only had one sexual assault entry, a rape that was investigated but not charged. It ended being a case of he said/she said. As I read the report, I could see where the evidence didn’t stack up and it was a case of 6–5 or pick ‘em.

I looked up. The clock had moved ahead marginally. I glanced at my watch, as if it would tell a different tale. It didn’t. And my phone sat mute.

His last arrest was for possession of marijuana seven months ago. Even though it was only a misdemeanor, he did almost six months on that conviction, a result of his time for the drug arrest and serving some time that had been deferred on an earlier suspended sentence. He got out earlier this year, in March.

Fawn was killed in early April. And then Serena, two weeks later.

I shuffled through my paperwork, looking for the reports Renee had printed off for me. I found them underneath Lindsay’s notes on his fruitless search for Virgil Kelley. Laying the rape reports next to each other, I took out my pen and began making a timeline. The murder of Serena Gonzalez was the first thing I jotted down, along with the date. Then I worked backwards. Two weeks prior to that, Fawn Taylor. Seventeen days before that, Rowdy was released from jail.

I checked the dates on the rape reports regarding Beverly Stubbs and Eva Patterson. Beverly Stubbs was raped five weeks before Rowdy went to jail for his marijuana arrest. Seven weeks before that, Eva Patterson was raped. In both cases, the suspect choked them during the act. Neither girl had ever seen the guy before and neither one gave a great description. Reading what little they could describe, it fit Rowdy. And about twenty thousand other guys in River City. But Beverly Stubbs remembered seeing a tattoo peeking out from his sleeve when the suspect was choking her. The letter ‘C’ on his right arm.

BSC. Brotherhood of the Southern Cross. Rowdy had those three letters tattooed on his right forearm.

Eva Patterson refused the rape kit, but Beverly Stubbs was examined at the hospital. I read the results briefly. There wasn’t any forensic evidence found, only signs of sexual trauma.

Rowdy had learned. He used a condom.

I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock.

I knew in my gut that Rowdy was my guy. He raped Eva Patterson, then Beverly Stubbs. He liked it. Then he got popped for marijuana possession and spent six months at the County Jail, brooding. As soon as he got out, he started looking for his next girl. He found Fawn. Did he mean to kill her? I wasn’t sure, but I imagined that he got closer each time and for him, the third time was the charm. He killed Fawn. And he liked it. He liked it so much, he killed Serena Gonzalez two weeks later.

Eleven-oh-two.

I didn’t have anything on Rowdy that would hold up in court. Even if I arrested him now, he’d get out at first appearance on insufficient probable cause.

I had to get his DNA and hope the FBI lab was worth a damn on those hairs Cameron sent them.

Even that wouldn’t be enough. I needed a confession. I needed a search warrant for his house, where I hoped to God he still had some mementos from Fawn and Serena.

Eleven-oh-seven.

I rubbed my chin, trying hard to harness my impatience and frustration. I knew this goddamn guy was bad and I couldn’t do anything about it, except sit there and wait for him to show up.

By eleven-forty-five, I was about to give up.

Billings approached my desk. Without a word, he dropped a note in front of me and walked away.

Found the PO Box in Sacramento. Mail Box Stop on Pinero Drive. Rented in the name of Dave Semenko. Paid three years in advance. None of the employees has seen your guy. Go fuck yourself.

I frowned. Dave Semenko. That was a bogus name. Semenko was a hockey player. He was the guy who protected Wayne Gretzky. They called him Cement-Head. Virgil Kelley had a sense of humor, even if he was supposedly dead.

The phone on my desk rang.

I snatched it on the first ring. “Tower.”

“John, it’s Renee.”

“Oh.”

“Well, a happy hello to you, too.”

“Renee, I’ve got a guy coming in for an interview. I think he’s a no show.”

“Well, then, prepare to be happy.”

“Why?”

“I went back another six months on your rapist profile. Found six more rapes.”

“And?”

”And one is unsolved and the suspect fits the behavior profile. Best of all, the victim was still living in River City as of three weeks ago. She was the victim of a hit and run downtown.”

“Think she’ll talk to me?”

“I pulled the report. Detective Billings worked the case and she looked at several montages during the investigation before it was suspended as unsolved.”

I allowed myself a brief smile.

“Well, I have just the picture I want her to see.”

I picked up the report from Renee and read it. It sounded just like the other two. While I read the report, Renee put together a photomontage containing Rowdy’s photo.

“You want him as number two?” she asked.

The montages contained six photos, arranged in two rows of three. Position number two was in the center of the top row. A lot of detectives put their suspect in that position to encourage the victim in making that choice. A few defense attorneys had wised up to that fact and challenged the identification in court as being unduly suggestive.

“Make him number four,” I said.

After finishing the montage, I returned to my desk with the report and montage in hand. I checked my message light, but it wasn’t flashing.

I grabbed Rowdy’s rap sheet along with the rape report filed by Marla Pratt over fifteen months ago and headed out.

“Is this about the guy who hit my car downtown?” Marla Pratt asked me, standing in her doorway. She wore jean cut-offs and a Sturgis T-shirt with no bra and gazed at me with her mouse-like features.

“No. I’m here about the assault.”

“Last year?”

I nodded.

Her lips tightened. “You mind if I grab something to drink?”

“Go ahead.”

She gestured for me to enter and I stepped into her small apartment. It was cluttered but not dirty. A large Harley Davidson wall hanging adorned the living room wall.

“You hang out with bikers much?” I asked as she opened the fridge and leaned inside.

“No. Fucking assholes.” She reappeared holding a can of Keystone Light and proffered one my direction.

“No, thanks,” I said. “On duty.”

She shrugged and closed the fridge, popped open the can of beer as she walked toward me. “You can sit down,” she said and took a healthy slug from the can.

I sat on the chair next to the couch. “Why do you call them assholes?”

“Fucking assholes,” she corrected me. “And it’s because they are.”

“Was it a biker that assaulted you?”

“I think so. Maybe. Why are you here now,” she asked, “after all this time?”

“There have been some developments in your case.”

“Developments?”

I nodded but didn’t elaborate. “I read in the report that you were new to River City when this happened.”

“I came up from Reno. I used to work at a paper plant there and some of the guys rode Harleys on the weekends. We made a bunch of runs over the years. Even went to Sturgis twice.”

“They weren’t bikers?”

“No. Just guys on bikes.” She took another drink and smiled humorlessly. “I mean, they weren’t like those yuppie jerk-offs you seen cruising around on Harleys now. These were blue-collar guys. A little rough, maybe, but we never hung out with any fuckin’ outlaws.”

“What brought you up here?”

“A job. There’s a paper mill out in the Valley.”

She took another hard drink from the can and went to the fridge to retrieve another.

I pulled out the montage and lay it face down on the coffee table. Marla sauntered back into the room, sipping from the beer can. She pointed. “What’s that?”

“This is a photo montage, Marla. I think you may have looked at some before?”

“Yeah. My attacker was never in there.”

“This is the same process as before. I’ll show you the montage and if you recognize anyone, tell me who and where you recognize them from. All right?”

She nodded.

“Remember, hair styles and facial hair can change appearances, too, okay?”

Another nod.

I turned over the montage.

Her eyes scanned the paper for two seconds. Then her finger stabbed at a photo. “That one right there. Number Four. That’s the motherfucker who raped me.”

The clubhouse door swung open on the third knock. It was the same guy who answered the door last time I was there. He must be the door man.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Rowdy.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“Send him out here. He said something to me yesterday that might help out with Sammy G.’s case.”

“He knows something about Sammy G. getting killed?”

I nodded.

“No wonder he was acting funny after you left. Sumbitch was holding out.”

“Can you send him out?”

“He’s not here. Took off a little while after he talked to you yesterday.”

I clenched my jaw and fought to keep myself under control. I handed Door Man one of my business cards. “If Rowdy shows up or you hear where he is, you call me.”

“Why do you care who killed Sammy G., anyway?”

“It’s my job to care.”

Rowdy’s only other address of record was his mother’s house in Hillyard. I took Market north until I reached Asbury and turned west. She lived on the 2800 block. I parked off about half a block and crept up to the house.

The house was dark red brick. The lawn was an off yellow with intermittent patches of pale green and dirt. A motorcycle sat in the front yard near the curb with a For Sale sign taped to the handlebars.

I knocked on the door and listened As the door swung open, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a soap opera. The woman who opened the door had a cigarette dangling from her lip and she bore what looked like a permanent squint.

“What do you want?”

I showed her my badge. “Yeah, so?”

“I need to talk to your son.”

“Why are you guys always picking on my Cody?”

“Is he home?”

She stared at me. “No. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Is that his bike?” I pointed to the Harley in the front yard.

“Yeah,” she said.

“How long has it been for sale?”

“Since yesterday afternoon when he dropped it off.”

“If he doesn’t have his bike, what is he driving?”

Her squint deepened into a scowl. “His van. Why’re you asking all these questions?”

I pulled out a business card. “If Cody comes by, give me a call, would you?”

She looked at the card between my fingers like it was a turd. “I don’t think so. Cody wants to talk to you, he can find you.”

“Mrs. Heinz-”

She jerked her head toward the street. “Now get off of my property.”

She slammed the door.

I slipped my card in her mailbox and walked back out to the street. Before I left, I wrote down the phone number on the For Sale sign.

Wednesday, April 21 st Late Morning, Davenport Hotel

VIRGIL

The front portion of the Palms Hotel was smoldering and two fire trucks stood at the ready in the background. A beautiful blonde reporter babbled silently into her microphone.

“Turn that up,” I said.

Gina reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the remote. In seconds, the volume was up.

“-engines from Fire Station One responded to this blaze. According to sources, the first alarm was received around four this morning. Three engines responded and managed to suppress the fire, but not after extensive damage had been sustained by the hotel.”

While the reporter spoke, file footage was shown of the Palms blazing away in the darkness of the morning.

“Initial statements from Assistant Fire Chief Mike Pierson were that three bodies were discovered in one of the hotel rooms.”

The face of the Assistant Fire Chief filled the screen. “At this time, the bodies have been badly burned and we are unable to determine whether they were killed by the fire.”

The blonde returned to the screen. “The names of the victims have not been determined at this time. Once the victims are identified, the names won’t be released until the families have been notified. For Channel 5 Action News, I’m Shawna Matheson.”

Gina stopped the noise from the screen. “Is that the loose end you had to wrap up?”

“You sure you want to know?”

“I already know the answer,” she said and rolled out of bed.

Gina padded over to the table in the corner of the room and grabbed a cigarette. Still naked, she dropped into the upholstered chair and brought her knees up to her chest. She fired up her cigarette and took a pull.

“Throw me the pack and the lighter.”

Gina carefully arced the items on to the bed next to me. I shook one free, lit it and inhaled deep.

“What’s the next step?” she asked.

“I’m going back to find Rowdy.”

“You’re going back to the house in Hillyard?”

“As soon as I get a shower.”

“Want me to go along?”

“No.”

“I can help you.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I stitched you back up, if you don’t remember.”

“And I’m thankful for that.”

“I also let you get naked with me last night.”

“Which I’m also thankful for. But this isn’t a path you want to go down, Gina. I’ll drop you off at your house and then I’ll take care of this business.”

“How about I stay here?”

“What would you do while I’m gone?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Order room service. Watch movies.”

“If you want to wait here, I’m not going to kick you out.”

Gina took a deep drag on her cigarette and pushed the smoke out in one long exhale. She watched me, her eyes intent. “You must have loved her.” Her tone was different, jealous almost.

“Loved who?”

“Your daughter. For you to put yourself this situation, take the kind of hurting that you did and still want to go forward, she must have been very special.”

I rolled my cigarette carefully between my thumb and forefinger. “I never met her.”

“What?” Gina kicked her legs out from underneath her and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table.

“I never met her,” I repeated.

“Then why are you doing all of this?”

I stood and walked over to the table and ground out my own cigarette. With a single step I was back at the bed and dropped onto my back. I winced with pain when my broken teeth clacked together.

Gina leaned forward in the chair with her elbows on her knees, waiting for an answer.

“She was my daughter.”

“But you never met her.”

I turned my head to her and met her eyes. “Do you believe in God?”

She smirked. “What?”

“God. Do you believe in him?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said with a small shrug.

“Have you ever seen him?”

Gina slanted her eyes at me. “It’s not the same thing.”

I turned my head back and stared at the ceiling.

Silence hung in the room for several moments before Gina spoke softly. “You can tell me, Virgil.”

I didn’t know what to tell her. I witnessed Fawn’s life through pictures sent by her mother. The only love I gave her came in the form of money I secretly sent her mother. I never heard her voice or the joy in her laugh. I wouldn’t get to see her graduate high school or get married or have children.

Had she lived I still would have never seen those things. That was the reality of our family.

Gina slipped out of her chair and climbed onto the bed. She pulled in close to me and I could feel her breath on my chest.

“It’s okay, Virgil, you don’t have to tell me. But make me one promise.”

I stroked her hair and closed my eyes. “What’s that?”

“Come back in one piece.”

I stopped down the street from the house on Asbury and saw the same maroon colored patrol car that was at the Brotherhood’s clubhouse. The white van was not in the driveway and a motorcycle stood in the middle of the front lawn.

At the front door of the red brick house, Detective John Tower was trying to talk with a woman in her early fifties. I couldn’t see her well, but could tell she was giving Tower a hard time. He tried to say something to her and she slammed the door in his face. He walked over to the motorcycle and wrote down the number on the For Sale sign.

I lowered the driver’s seat back and waited until I heard the patrol car fire up and drive by me.

Several minutes passed while I reclined. The motorcycle had been moved since I was there the first time and a For Sale sign was put out. If I had waited, Rowdy would have returned and I could have ended it before now. Hindsight is a dangerous game to start playing so I shook it free from my head.

With a quick tug, I sat the seat up straight. The neighborhood was quiet as I walked towards the house. The front lawn was yellowed, the hangover of a winter thaw.

At the door I heard the sounds of television blaring loudly in the house. The broad must have been deaf. I pounded on the door and it jerked open.

A haggard looking woman opened the door with an unlit cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She stood about five-foot five and maybe broke a hundred and ten pounds. Her eyes squinted like imaginary cigarette smoke was burning them. She wore red stretch pants and a white t-shirt which had long since yellowed. “He’s gone,” she said with a raspy voice.

“Who?”

She looked past me and searched around the neighborhood. “Your partner. He’s gone.”

I smiled and shrugged at her. “I don’t have a partner.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You ain’t a cop?”

“I need to talk to Rowdy.”

“Why?”

I thumbed in the direction of the Harley. “About his bike.”

She eyed me for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re here for the bike. You want him for something else.”

“Where’s he at?”

“I didn’t tell no cop about Rowdy and I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell you.”

I put my hand on the door and felt her resistance.

My voice dropped a couple of octaves and I leaned forward into her face. “I need to come in and talk to you about Rowdy.”

She stabbed her finger in my chest. “You come in and I’ll call the cops.”

“Now you like the police?”

“What?”

I snapped an uppercut punch into her stomach, doubling her up and causing her to let go of the door. With a quick step I was inside the house with the front door closed behind me.

“You mother-,” she gasped.

I smacked her hard across the face and spun her completely around. She fell in a heap. I helped her to her knees as she still cradled her stomach.

“What’s your name?”

“Marion,” she whispered.

“Do you know what I’m good at, Marion?”

She shook her head.

“Hurting people. I’m really good at that. Do you believe me?”

She nodded as trickle of blood ran from her lip.

“Where is Rowdy?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“That’s not an answer I can use, Marion.”

Her eyes widened as she realized the situation her son had gotten her into.

“Does Rowdy have any friends?”

“I don’t know.”

My hand cracked against the side of her face and lifted her from her knees. She tried to scramble up, but I caught her by the throat and shoved her against the wall.

My face was inches from her ear. “Do you remember what my talent is, Marion?”

She nodded frantically.

“Who is Rowdy’s friend?”

“B-B-Brian,” she stammered out.

“Brian what?”

“Brian, oh god, I dunno.” She closed her eyes shut hard and waited for a blow to come.

I squeezed my hand around her neck to get her to open her eyes up.

“Where does Brian live?”

Tears flowed down her face.

“Where does Brian live?” I slowly repeated for her.

“I can’t. He’s my baby.”

I punched her hard in the ribs. Marion screamed for a moment before I covered her mouth with my free hand.

“If you scream, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, panic-stricken. Tears streamed down her cheeks and over my hand.

“Where does Brian live?”

I lifted the hand over her mouth. “Over on West Fairmont. Something like 3124.”

“Something like 3124 or definitely 3124?”

“I dunno, it’s on the refrigerator.” She pointed into the kitchen.

Still holding Marion by the neck, I walked her into the kitchen and over to the refrigerator. On the avocado green unit were papers and magnets everywhere. Photographs were interspersed with the papers.

“Where’s the address?” I asked with a shake of her throat.

She pointed to a ragged piece of paper.

“You were right, Marion. 3124. Good memory.”

I saw a picture of Rowdy and another long-haired kid. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Brian.”

I stared at the picture for a moment and squeezed around Marion’s throat. Her hands grasped at my hand.

“Do you want to live, Marion?”

She nodded with tears streaming down her red face.

“Do you have any rope?”

After tying up Marion in the basement, I checked out the house and found Rowdy’s room in the back corner. Hung on the walls were pictures of heavy metal bands, a rebel flag and pictures of his BSC brothers. Dirty clothes were strewn about the room and the bed hadn’t been made.

In the living room, I found the keys to Rowdy’s Harley, which were on a Playboy key ring.

I placed a phone call to the Davenport and asked for my room. Gina answered on the second ring.

“Don’t say anything,” I said quickly.

She waited quietly.

“Pick up your car at the first house you told me about. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“The keys will be under the seat and the doors unlocked.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone and walked out to Rowdy’s bike. It took me a couple of kicks but I got it running. I drove it over to Gina’s car and left the keys in it.

Wednesday, April 21 st 1319 hrs Special Services Unit

TOWER

“What can you do with it?” I asked Adam.

He looked at the number I handed him, his brow furrowing. “Well, first off, it’s a cell phone. That’s the bad news. The good news is that maybe it’s in our records somewhere.”

I frowned. “That’d be great, but…”

“All it takes is for the owner to have ever given it just once to any cop in the county and it’ll be in here.”

“Like I said, it’d be great, but…”

“Huh. No record found.” Adam glanced up at me. “That’s all right. We’ll just have to get into some technical wizardry.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Adam typed furiously at his keyboard. I looked around the small room. Tucked away in the basement of the police station, the Special Services Unit had all the gadgetry necessary to run a modern day police department. Surveillance, video recovery, computer encryption, you name it. Adam was a police officer for four years, but when this civilian position came open, he resigned from RCPD and took the job. Rumor was that he made even more than top rate patrol pay. He was probably worth it, too, though I knew that most of the time his work consisted of trying to clean up video surveillance tapes from convenience store robberies or department store shoplifters. It was a waste of talent.

“The key is going to be keeping him talking,” Adam told me, sliding across the room in his chair to a small bank of equipment that I didn’t recognize.

“Huh?”

“Whoever answers the phone. You have to keep them talking as long as possible.”

I watched him flip a couple of switches and make adjustments to the equipment. It reminded me of the engine room in the old Star Trek series. “I see.”

Adam looked over at me. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t. How are you going to trace a cell phone?”

Adam smiled and slid back over to the computer. “All cell phones operate off of cell towers. I can narrow down which tower in about ten seconds.”

“That fast?”

He nodded. “That’s the easy part. Each tower covers a certain geographical area. I establish that as my search region, then use the other cell towers to begin to triangulate the location of the cell signal.” He pointed to a separate screen. “Then I just overlay the signal result onto a satellite map of the area that’s in the same resolution and I can give you the address the call is coming from. As long as he’s not mobile, anyway.”

“How long does that take?”

“A minute. Maybe longer.”

“I don’t know if I can keep him talking for a minute.”

“You don’t know for sure it’s his number, though, right? I mean, it’s not listed to him or to anyone in our records. It’d take you weeks and a subpoena to figure out which cell company the number belongs to.”

“Don’t offer an encouraging word or anything, Adam.”

“Let me ask you something. For your case, does it matter how you locate the guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is how you found him ever going to get into court?”

“I don’t think so. Not as a material issue, anyway. Why?”

Adam took a deep breath and leaned forward. “If it isn’t an issue, I can hook us up with some help on this triangulation. But it can’t be known to anyone else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just promise me that this issue will never come up,”

“I promise. We found him with your equipment. Nothing more. Or would an anonymous tip be better?”

“No. Just no mention of anything beyond my civilian-made police equipment.”

Adam went to work, typing furiously again. After a few moments, he picked up a cell phone and dialed, then resumed typing.

“Grant?” he said. “Adam. Go secure.”

Adam stopped typing briefly, bringing his cell phone from his ear and pressing a button.

He put the phone back to his year and resumed hitting keys. “Back? Okay, good. Listen, I’d like to run a triangulation test. Yeah, homeland security cooperation. Can you give me your towers?” He glanced over at me and nodded. “Good. Okay, I got ya. Seven minute window. Thanks, Grant.”

Adam hung up. “Are you ready to violate the Patriot Act?”

“Don’t say that.”

He grinned and handed me his phone, then hit a few more keys on the keyboard. “Go ahead and dial the number but don’t hit send. We have to wait for the connection to go green — oh, there it is. Never mind, go ahead and dial.”

I dialed the number and hit send. I could hear the digital ring in my ear.

“Yeah?”

It didn’t sound like Rowdy, but I didn’t take any chances. “Hi. I was calling about the Harley?”

“Harley? Oh, Rowdy’s bike. Yeah. Well, I’m not sure where he’s at. You want me to take your number or sumpin’?”

Adam made stretching motions to me with his hands and pointed to his watch.

“Well, sure,” I said, “but maybe you can tell me something about the bike.”

“Whattaya want to know?”

“It looked like it was in good shape.”

“I s’pose so.”

“What’s he asking for it?”

“I think all he said was best offer.”

“Well,” I said, “that doesn’t help out much.”

“Sorry.”

Adam nodded and tapped his watch.

“It’s just that if a guy’s going to sell a motorcycle, you think he’d have an idea what he wants for it. Maybe a starting place or something.”

“Don’t know what to tell ya. Say ten grand for starters, how’s that?”

“Steep,” I said.

“No shit,” he said. “You know hogs?”

“Not really.”

“You just some yuppie wanting to look like the guy in the commercial, then?”

“I just want to get out and ride. And I want to buy American.”

“All right, man. You can’t go wrong with a Harley. Best motorcycle ever made.”

“You own one?”

“’Course. Mine’s a little older than Rowdy’s, but he’s got connections.”

“Connections?”

“Never mind. You want to test drive the hog?”

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

“Awright, well, I’m busy today, but I can meet you tomorrow. Say around two?”

“Okay. Where?”

“At his mom’s house, man. Where the hog is. Where the hell did you think?”

Adam tapped his watch furiously and made fevered stretching motions with his hands.

“Yeah, of course. I’m just excited. It’s my first motorcycle. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Brian.”

“Brian, I’m John. I have a question for you.”

“What? Hurry up, though, my show’s coming on.”

“Do I need a helmet?”

“Yeah. Unless you like hundred dollar tickets from the cops.”

“No, I know it’s the law and all. I just meant tomorrow. Do I need a helmet for a test ride?”

Adam’s face broke into a huge smile and he flashed me a thumbs up sign. “Got him,” he mouthed.

“I’ll bring mine over,” Brian said. “You can use it.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah. Anyway, gotta go. My show’s on.”

He hung up.

I handed the phone back to Adam, whose entire face was one giant grin. He handed me the address he’d written down. “We got him. Do you know how awesome that is?”

“Thanks,” I told him.

“Thanks? John, this was an awesome feat of technology.”

“Awesome and illegal,” I reminded him, clapping him on the shoulder as I left the room.

Wednesday, April 21 st 3124 West Fairmont, 1:30 PM

VIRGIL

Brian’s house was a squatty one-story with blue shingles. I drove up into the driveway past a beat-up yellow Chevy and parked near the open gate to the back yard. There were no windows on the side of the house so Brian wouldn’t be able to see that I had Rowdy’s bike. I turned off the bike and walked around to the front door.

I knocked several times before it opened up. A long-haired kid stood in the doorway and looked at me with suspicion. He wore a faded Metallica shirt that bore the tagline Metal Up Your Ass.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” I looked over his shoulder into the house and didn’t see or hear anyone else. The kid stuck his hand up to my chest as I stepped by him into his house.

“Hey, man, what are you doing?”

“Are you Brian?”

The kid’s voice was rising in pitch and fear. “What? I think you should go.”

“Brian, shut the door,” I said and looked around the house.

“Get the fuck outta my house or I’ll call the cops.” His voice shook so bad I thought he going to cry.

“Is Rowdy here?” I asked as I looked around the room.

“That’s it,” he said and reached for a cellular phone on top of the television. “I’m calling the cops.”

I grabbed his arm and spun him around before my fist slammed into his chest. Brian backpedaled to the wall. When he hit, he pushed off and came at me screaming. He tried to tackle me, but I caught him under the arm, lifted him up and threw him onto the coffee table. He landed on his back and shattered the table. Thousands of splinters and shards of glass shot everywhere.

I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him to his knees. “Where’s Rowdy?”

“Fu-”

My hand slapped across Brian’s face and I let go of his hair. Brian fell to the ground and then scrambled in to the kitchen. I chased him in and pushed him from behind. Brian crashed face first into the refrigerator. Blood poured from his nose which was now clearly broken.

“Where’s Rowdy?”

“Not here,” he said through little whimpers.

From the kitchen I could see the bathroom. I snatched Brian by the hair and dragged him to the toilet.

“Ready for a swim?”

Brian shook his head wildly.

With my hand still in his hair and the other around his neck, I shoved Brian’s head in to the toilet. His hands clawed at me. After a count of twenty, I pulled his head out of the toilet. Brian gasped for air like a fish out of water.

“Where’s Rowdy?”

“At the fun house.”

I pushed Brian’s face back into the toilet. His hand reached up and flushed the toilet. As the water ran from the bowl, I lifted his head up.

“What’s the fun house?”

“It’s where he takes his girlfriends.”

“That's where he takes them to kill them?”

“He doesn’t kill anyone, man.”

“Where’s the fun house?”

“Why should I tell you?”

I slapped Brian hard and then grabbed his right arm by the wrist and elbow. With a sharp thrust, I brought my knee up against his forearm. He squealed but I didn’t feel it give. Brian clawed at my back as I hugged his arm to my chest. I dropped all of my weight across the rim of the toilet bowl and heard the sharp snap of a broken bone. Brian howled in pain.

I stood and let Brian cradle his arm while he cried.

“Tell me where Rowdy is or I’ll continue to break things until you do.”

“It’s on the corner of Wales and Magnolia.” Spittle flew everywhere as he spoke.

“Where the hell is that?”

Brian shook his head in a frenzy. “Off Sprague and Napa. In that area.”

I slapped his face to get him to focus. “What’s it look like?”

“It’s an old office building. No one uses it anymore.”

I pulled out Fawn’s picture from my jacket. “You ever see this girl?”

He nodded frantically. “Once.”

“Where did you see her at?”

“Rowdy introduced me to her. Said it was his new girlfriend.”

I grabbed his throat. “Did you fuck her?”

“No,” he gagged, “that was Rowdy’s girl.”

My fingers wrapped around his throat. “I think you’re lying, kid.”

“I swear.”

“You wanna live?”

“Please,” he begged softly and let the tears flow.

“Don’t tell anyone I was here. Not the cops, not a doctor, not your priest. Got it?”

Brian nodded frantically.

“You got a basement in here?”

He nodded and I released his throat. I stepped out of Brian’s way and let him walk into the kitchen. He opened a door on the far side of the room and reached out to flick on the light. With both hands, I shoved him down the stairway. He flew down the stairs and stopped suddenly with a loud crunch.

Wednesday, April 21 st 1338 hrs En route to 3124 West Fairmont

TOWER

“Brian who?” I asked Janice, yelling into the cell phone mic on my visor. I was headed north on Northwest Blvd and traffic was thick.

“The address reverse directory says Osmond,” she answered. “You want this guy’s history?”

“Yep.”

“Some minor thefts and traffic is all I see.”

“Any gang affiliation at all? BSC associate or prospect?”

“No.”

“Sex crimes?”

“No, nothing. His license is suspended, though.”

“Okay. Thanks, Janice.”

The traffic light changed as she disconnected. I sped up and started passing vehicles. Brian Osmond was not a biker or even an affiliate, but he knew Rowdy.

3124 West Fairmont was a blue-shingled house that had the look of having belonged to Brian’s parents or grandparents. That is, it had been well kept up for years, but not so much lately. The grass was long and the garden hose unfurled. A yellow Chevy Caprice was parked in the driveway. The gate to the back yard stood open and I noticed motorcycle tire marks in the grass near the gate.

I knocked on the screen door. There was no answer. I pulled open the screen door and knocked on the front door. It swung open on my first knock.

Cautiously, I pushed it the rest of the way open with my left hand, drawing my Glock from my shoulder holster with my right. The living room was a mess. Wood and glass from the coffee table had been shattered and covered the floor. A broken lamp hung off the front of an end table from its own cord. Looking past the living room, I saw a similar scene in the kitchen.

I crept into the living room. I thought about calling for backup, then dismissed the idea. Not enough time.

I swept through the living room and the kitchen and saw no one. On the refrigerator, I spotted a long smear of bright red blood.

The two bedrooms were clear and untouched. I pushed open the bathroom door carefully, expecting to find a dead body in the tub. The room was empty. I saw some blood droplets on the wall and water spilled around the toilet.

Wandering back through the kitchen, I spotted another door. I eased it open and saw a staircase behind it. A basement. The light was off and I couldn’t see anything beyond three or four steps down. I kept my gun trained on the darkness and felt around on the wall with my left hand until I located a light switch. I turned on the light.

A man’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

My heart raced. I forced myself to go slowly down the stairs, keeping my gun at the low ready and watching the body and the rest of the basement at the same time. The basement stairs creaked loudly with every step.

A moan came from the body at the bottom of the stairs, making me jump. As I reached the final stair, I could see the entirety of the small basement. A washer and dryer were pushed into the corner. A few boxes were visible underneath the stairs themselves. That was it.

I kept my gun aimed at the guy, probably Brian, until I’d checked his hands and his waistband. Then I slid the pistol back into my holster.

Brian moaned again. I squatted, reached underneath him and helped pull him into a sitting position. He was holding his right forearm and yelped, his eyes shooting open.

“No more, man! Fuck! No more!”

“It’s okay, Brian. He’s gone.”

“Who the fuck are you, man?” he asked, almost crying.

“Detective Tower, River City Police.”

He slumped, visibly relieved. I examined his face. Both sides of it were swollen, though the left side considerably more than the right. That eye was probably going to swell shut. The skin was still red and angry. Wet blood flowed slowly from his nose in a steady stream from both nostrils down to his chin. Numerous abrasions covered his face and he held onto his right forearm gingerly.

“Lean back against the wall.”

He did so with some difficulty.

“You want some water?”

“No, man. I just want to curl up and fucking die.”

“You aren’t going to die.” I looked over his injuries again. “Did Rowdy do this?”

“Rowdy’s my friend.” He winced and held his forearm, tearing spilling down his cheeks. “Oh, Jesus, man, he broke it. I know he broke it.”

“Who broke it?”

“Some fucking guy. Call an ambulance, man, before I die!”

“Brian!” I said sharply, snapping my fingers in front of his face. “You’re not going to die. And I’m not calling an ambulance until we’re done talking. The longer you screw around, the longer it’s going to hurt.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“No kidding.”

“You’re the police! You can’t do that! I’ll sue you if you don’t call — “

I reached out and gave his forearm a hard slap.

“OH MY FUCK!” Brian yelled. “That hurt!”

He scooted into the corner and held his forearm, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Sick son of a bitch,” he said between them.

“Who did this to you?”

“Some guy I never met before. He called about Rowdy’s hog for sale and I set up a meet with him at two tomorrow. Then he just shows up here-“

I held up my hand, stopping him. “Wait a sec. How many people called about the bike today?”

“Just this one guy. Then he showed up here.”

“How long after the phone call did this guy show up?”

“Less than five minutes. I thought that was kinda weird, but I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because inside of two minutes, he was beating the shit out of me all over my house.”

“What’d this guy look like?”

“Big, strong motherfucker,” Brian said, panting and grimacing as he held onto his arm.

“Thick in the chest and neck?”

Brian nodded, wincing. “Yeah. Not fat, though.”

“No,” I muttered, leaning back on my haunches. “Not fat.”

Virgil Kelley. Son of a bitch.

“Motherfucker hits like a mule kick.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“He broke it, okay? He broke it and then he told me he’d break my other arm and both legs and then my neck if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.”

“Did you tell him?”

Brian looked away and didn’t answer.

“Did you tell him?”

Brian stared at the floor and refused to answer.

“Brian — “

“He said he’d come back and kill me if I told anyone,” he said, his eyes snapping back to mine. “Doctors, cops, anyone. He’ll do it, too. He’s crazy. Threw me down the stairs before he left.”

“Brian,” I said in a low voice. “I need to know what you told him.”

He shook his head, mucus flowing from his nose and tears from his eyes. Blood was beginning to dry and darken on his forehead.

“I need to know what you told him,” I repeated.

Brian started to shake his head, but my hand shot out and grabbed him by the hair. He yelped and jumped. The jump caused him to yelp again and grab onto his forearm.

I leaned in close. “The real problem you have right now is that the other guy is gone and I’m right here. And I will fuck you up if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

“Oh, God,” Brian whimpered. “You’re as bad as him.”

“What’s it to be?”

Brian cried silently. I waited for a few seconds, then shifted in my stance. The sound of my shoes on the floor made Brian jump.

“Fuck it,” he whined. “Just fuck it. I’ll tell you. But I want protective custody from that crazy son of-.”

“Done,” I lied. “Now what did he ask you?”

“He asked a lot about a girl. He showed me a picture and said it was his daughter. That’s when I got scared.”

“Why?”

“’Cause she was a whore. Rowdy brought her by once and I banged her.”

“Did Rowdy?”

Brian shook his head. “No. He’d rather play.”

“Play?”

“Give them the Rowdy treatment. He’s into pain and stuff.”

“What else?”

“He wanted to know where Rowdy was.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Not right away. I told him I didn’t know. That’s when this shit got serious.”

“So you told him?”

“After he broke my arm, yeah I told him.” He met my eyes, shaking his head. “Rowdy’s okay and all, getting us weed and whores once in a while, but I wasn’t going to die for him.”

I held Brian’s gaze and leaned in close, my voice dark. “I only have one more question, Brian. And you better fucking answer it. Where is Rowdy now?”

Wednesday, April 21 st Wales/Magnolia, 2:12 PM

VIRGIL

It took me less than forty-minutes to find Wales and Magnolia and the deserted building Brian described. I parked Rowdy’s motorcycle about a block away and walked up to the building. A white Chevy van was parked in the alley behind and just west of the building.

At the front door, I tried the door knob. It turned slightly but wouldn’t open. I pressed my ear against the door and heard music coming from inside. A man’s voice yelled out in excitement several times over the loud noise. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out a pair of black lambskin gloves and slipped them on.

I pressed my shoulder against the door and leaned in hard. It took several minutes but the lock eventually popped. The door must have been kicked in more than a few times from the way the door jamb looked.

The loud music continued, as did the excited male voice. “How do you like that, bitch?”

I closed the door behind me and pulled my Glock out of my jacket pocket. My second Glock was still at the hotel room, just in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. The heavy weight of Hiero’s larger Glock in the small of my back was re-assuring. With careful and quiet steps, I made my way through the dirty office building. Old desks and broken furniture littered the rooms. I passed several rooms that smelled like someone had shit in them.

I took a long hallway to the back of the building, where I found a large office with a smaller room connected to it. The screeching heavy metal music was coming from the smaller room. I stepped carefully around the corner into the room and leveled my gun at the back of Rowdy’s head.

Tied to a bed was a naked young girl with slicked back red hair. Both her arms and her ankles were tied to the headboard, folding her over at the waist. Her hips were forced in to the air. A cloth rag was stuffed into her mouth and a piece of duct taped wrapped around her head. As the music squealed and pounded from a boom box on the floor, Rowdy danced and angrily slammed a large green dildo into her.

“You like that, don’t ya, slut?”

On a short, metal stool by the bed was a blackened glass pipe and little baggie. Rowdy jumped up and down and shook his shoulders.

“I wanna fuck you like animal!” Rowdy screamed in chorus with the music.

The girl’s eyes caught mine and they widened in surprise. I stepped behind Rowdy and grabbed my gun by the barrel.

Rowdy hammered his fist into the girl’s face before spinning around to face me.

“Hiya, sport,” I said and brought the butt of my gun down on Rowdy’s face.

He looked surprised for a moment and then crumpled to the ground.

I looked at the girl and realized I’d seen her before on Sprague. She was one of the young hookers who was just earning her bones. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was slack and blood flowed from her nose.

“I wanna fuck you like an animal!” The words screamed at me from the boom box. With a kick, I sent the boom box into the wall, shattering it and knocking over the stool with Rowdy’s dope.

I grabbed Rowdy by his hair and dragged him into the other room.

When he came to I shoved the Glock in his eye socket and told him to get up on his knees. Rowdy wobbled upright and tried to focus on me. A thick trail of blood ran down his face from the gash above his left eye.

I pulled out Fawn’s picture and showed it to him. “Remember her?”

Rowdy continued to stare at me. I lifted the picture up in front of his eyes.

“Remember her?” I yelled at him.

“Nope.”

“You killed her.”

“Oh, her,” Rowdy muttered.

I shoved the picture back in my pocket before jamming the gun back into Rowdy’s eye. He wobbled before falling backward.

I stepped over him and leveled my Glock at him. “That was my daughter.”

“Drop the gun,” a deep voice yelled behind me.

Wednesday, April 21 st 1414 hrs 1612 East Wales

TOWER

I recognized the place as soon as I turned onto Wales. Years ago, it had been cheap office space that housed shady loan companies and then telephone solicitors. Eventually even those dregs left and the offices have stood empty ever since. Patrol routinely rousted transients out of there in the winter time.

Cruising slowly up the street toward the building, I saw a motorcycle parked almost a block away in the dirt at the edge of the street. I could feel adrenaline coursing through my body, so I took a slow deep breath and pulled over.

I turned off the engine and trudged carefully toward the office. As I sidled up to the corner of the building, I saw a white van parked in the alley behind the office.

I could hear the strains of manic electric guitar coming from inside the building. Over the top the music came the sound of a male voice yelling. It wasn’t the sounds of fighting. Instead, it sounded triumphant and excited.

I slipped my Glock from my shoulder holster. Fawn’s face flashed in my mind and when I pushed it away, it was replaced with Serena’s.

I ducked beneath the window even though it had some boards over the top of it and approached the front door. I held my Glock at the low ready position, pointed at the ground about ten yards in front of me.

The front door stood open about an inch. The sound of heavy metal poured through the crack and the male voice was even louder. I heard the word “slut” fly out at me.

“I want to fuck you like an animal!”

With my left hand, I eased the door open. I kept my gun trained on the interior of the room as it became exposed to me. The small reception area was empty except for some trash and a small pile of smashed dry-wall. The smell of human waste hung in the air.

I felt my heart pounding in my temples as I shuffled through the room and several beyond until I reached a small hallway. The narrow passage was darker than the reception area, but the smells were stronger and the music was louder.

I took a deep breath through my mouth and took slow steps down the hallway.

The music abruptly stopped with a crash.

I dropped into a squat and peered down the hallway into the large room beyond. A moment later, Rowdy appeared from a small office inside the large room. A large, barrel-chested man had him by the hair and once they were free of the office, he pushed Rowdy forward toward the back of the room. He looked like Sammy the Bull.

Virgil Kelley.

Rowdy didn’t move for several moments and neither did I. I could hear Virgil’s breathing and watched as he fingered his pistol. It was a Glock, same as mine.

“C’mon, you fuck, wake up,” I heard him mutter.

Rowdy stirred.

“Up on your fucking knees,” Virgil told him.

Rowdy rose to his knees, wavering.

Virgil thrust his gun into his face. He held something else in his other hand.

“Remember her?” he said in a gravelly tone.

I crept down the hallway, staying almost completely in a squatted position.

“Remember her?” Virgil asked him again.

He is going to smoke him, I realized. Right here, right now.

I reached the end of the hallway and button-hooked around the threshold. Looking around, I could see no cover and no concealment.

“Nope,” Rowdy said. Even in that one word, I could hear that he wasn’t right. Whether it was drunk or high, he was messed up.

“You killed her.” Virgil pushed the muzzle of the gun into Rowdy’s face for emphasis.

“Oh, her,” Rowdy mumbled.

That was it? Oh, her? In that moment, I wished a thousand deaths for Rowdy. Violent, painful ones.

“That was my daughter,” Virgil growled. He slipped something into his pocket and jammed the gun into Rowdy’s face, toppling him to the ground. Virgil’s shoulders tensed and he leaned forward almost imperceptibly.

“Drop the gun!” I shouted.

Virgil stiffened.

“Drop that fucking gun!”

Virgil turned his head and looked toward me over his shoulder. His face was bruised and a bandage covered his cheek. The muzzle of his gun never left Rowdy. Even from across the room, I could see the cold glint in his eye.

“Or what?” Virgil said.

Wednesday, April 21 st Abandoned Office Building at 1612 East Wales 2:17 PM

CONFRONTATION

VIRGIL

The heavy voice repeated his demand, “Drop that fucking gun!”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Detective John Tower staring down the barrel of his Glock. His hands were steady but his eyes wide with the question of a man’s fate hanging in the balance.

“Or what?” I said.

His eyes slanted and turned hard. Tower had made his decision to shoot when the time came. “Or I’ll drop you right here.”

The trigger of my gun tickled my finger and for a moment I thought about slamming it home, drilling my vengeance into Rowdy and taking my chances with the cop. The odds of surviving were bad. I swallowed hard and ground my teeth.

“I know he killed your daughter, Virgil.”

I tilted my head slightly at the sound of my name and looked between him and Rowdy. Andie must have told him about me. I wonder how he forced it out of her.

“Don’t do it,” he said with a lowered voice, trying to calm me just as he was instructed in Cop Negotiation 101.

TOWER

I watched Virgil’s eyes. His head was tilted slightly as they flitted back and forth between Rowdy and me. I could read the hard intelligence in those eyes, as the gears turned behind them and he put things into place.

“I know you came here to kill him,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. “But I’ve got him dead to rights for Fawn.”

Virgil’s eyes stopped moving and bore into me. “You’ve got proof positive?”

“Yeah.”

“Proof he killed Fawn?”

“Yeah. And another girl. And when I pull his DNA, it’ll be a slam dunk.”

VIRGIL

My mouth was dry and the trigger pressed back against my finger, begging to do its work.

“Nothing is a slam dunk,” I said.

Tower shuffled his feet as he kept his gun on me. He stopped when he realized he couldn’t get an advantage in this stand-off.

“I’ll make sure he goes away,” he said. “For life.”

“My way is better.”

TOWER

I wanted to scream at him that he was wrong but my words stuck in my throat. Virgil’s eyes were locked onto mine and they did not waver.

“Your way is not an option,” I said, forcing conviction into my voice. “Put the gun down.”

“No.”

“Do it,” I repeated.

Virgil tipped his head toward Rowdy. “No. He dies.”

“He dies, you die,” I said, staring into his eyes.

VIRGIL

I wasn’t afraid of death, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to cash my chips in if I didn’t have to.

“Listen,” I started, but Tower cut me off.

“Lower your gun. I’ve got back-up on the way.”

“I’ll lower the gun if you’ll look in the other room.”

Tower smirked at me, a flicker of humor in them. “Right, I look in the room and you shoot Rowdy. Or me. I’m not a rookie, Virgil.”

“I know you’re not. Look in the other room. You’ll find Rowdy’s latest plaything.”

TOWER

His words cut into me like ice needles.

I glanced at the door frame to my right. Virgil had dragged Rowdy out of that room.

I met Virgil’s flat gaze and nodded my head. “Fine. Lower your gun and I’ll look in the room. But you make even one little move-“

Virgil lowered his gun, pointing at his own feet. I saw the tension in his arms relax slightly. “Just check the room.”

I kept my own gun trained on Virgil’s barrel chest and stepped forward slowly. The fifteen feet between us became ten and then I had the angle to look into the room. I could see the foot of a small twin bed and the bare flesh of a hip.

I breathed deeply and glanced back at Virgil. His gun remained pointed down and his face was impassive.

VIRGIL

For some reason Tower stopped moving toward the room and looked at me. He swallowed hard and his eyes lost their focus on me for a moment. The focus returned immediately and I saw his jaw muscles flexing.

He saw something, but not all. I nodded my head to the room, encouraging him to take that final step and truly see Rowdy for what he was.

TOWER

Virgil’s nod was almost kind. I glanced down at his gun and wondered if he could bring it up faster than I could react.

I wondered if he would.

I swallowed again and shuffled slowly to my right.

Toward the doorway.

My eyes darted back and forth between the entry way and Virgil, who stood stock-still, watching me. As I approached the doorway, I could see a shattered boom box on its side against the far wall. A glass pipe was in the middle of the room, not unlike the thousands of other pipes I’d seen.

I forced my eyes to the bed.

Even folded in half and tied to the bed-post, I recognized her. The slick, red hair was disheveled and there was no hint of anger in her slack face. She still wore the large cross at her neck.

My stomach churned.

VIRGIL

As he stared into the other room, Tower’s face, reddened with the excitement of our stand-off, went gradually white and his lips tightened against each other.

When he moved his eyes slowly back to me, a new hatred burned in his eyes.

TOWER

I flashed a look at Virgil.

“Is she dead?” I asked.

Virgil shrugged slightly. “He hit her pretty hard right.”

I looked back at the young girl’s face and at her bare chest, watching for signs of breath.

“She would be, though.”

I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.

Turning my eyes back to Virgil, I asked, “Would be?”

“Dead. If we hadn’t stopped him, she would be dead right now for certain.”

I met his eyes again and stared into them.

VIRGIL

“My way is better,” I said again.

Tower’s lip twitched as he struggled with the dilemma.

“I’ll sweeten the pot for you,” I said, looking for the final push to send him over the edge.

“How’s that?” Tower asked, an odd rasp to his voice.

“In the small of my back is a gun I think you’ll want back.”

“Why would I want it?”

“It belongs to one of your brothers.”

Confusion washed over Tower’s face. “What?”

I struggled with the proper way to tell him. If I planted the hook wrong, he’d want to nail me for what I did to the other cop.

“Let’s just say I found it after I talked with the blonde hooker.”

TOWER

My mind raced. He had to be talking about Toni. And if he was talking about Toni-

Hiero. He had Hiero’s gun.

How did that happen?

Virgil watched me and I watched him back. His gun hand didn’t move, but his left hand drifted slowly to the small of his back. He drew out a Glock just like mine and held it by the barrel.

“You want it?” he asked.

“How’d you get it?”

Virgil was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Sometimes people are in the wrong place at the wrong time and shit goes bad for them.”

“You’re the one who beat up Hiero,” I accused him.

Virgil shook his head. “Wrong place, wrong time. Now he’s fucked and you can help him out.”

I stared down the barrel of my gun at him. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because you know it’s the truth.”

VIRGIL

I knelt slowly down, my gun still near Rowdy but not on him. Carefully, I laid the cop’s gun on the ground and pushed it across the bare concrete floor. It bumped into Tower’s foot but he never moved his eyes from me.

I stood back up and shifted my weight, getting ready for whatever play Tower was going to make.

“There’s the deal. Your buddy’s life for his.”

My eyes flashed to the moaning biker on the ground.

Tower’s face went pale and he swallowed hard before speaking. “I don’t make deals.”

“Then we’re both going to end up bloody here. There’s no one coming to your rescue, is there, Tower?”

TOWER

So there it was. I couldn’t bluff him and he couldn’t bluff me.

Somebody was going to die in this room, I realized.

Take the deal. Help Hiero out of a bind.

I shook my head slightly. I didn’t owe Hiero anything. Except that he wore the same badge as me.

Rowdy killed this guy’s little girl.

He killed Serena Gonzalez.

I tried to push that thought from my head, but the picture of the red-haired girl in the next room replaced it.

Rowdy was sick. He was broken.

You’re a cop. Not a judge.

Virgil’s eyes never left mine. It was like he was listening to the screaming inside my head.

“Your way, he gets prison. Maybe.” Virgil said, his voice almost soothing. “My way, he gets what he deserves.”

Rowdy moaned and pushed himself up to his knees. “Where’s my little fuck-bitch?” he muttered like a drunk.

Slowly, I lowered my gun.

VIRGIL

As soon as Tower lowered his gun, I moved toward Rowdy and brought my Glock up on him.

“What the fuck?” Rowdy yelled as his head listed and eyes struggled to focus.

With a thrust, I jammed the Glock into Rowdy’s right eye.

“Hey, man,” Rowdy slurred just before I pulled the trigger.

TOWER

The loud crack of the shot made me jump. It was coupled with the wet slapping sound of the bullet tearing away Rowdy’s face.

I watched Rowdy fall limply to the floor and a piece of me died right there with him.

VIRGIL

My eyes shifted away from Rowdy’s limp body to the cop standing to the right of me. His face was whiter than it had been but his eyes watched me intently.

I nodded to the southwest corner of the room. “I’m gonna walk through that door over there nice and slow,” I said, my voice as calm as I could make it, “and you get to be the hero by saving the girl.”

TOWER

“I’m no hero,” I muttered to him.

Virgil shrugged and watched me.

I swallowed slowly and tried to think.

“Are we good?” Virgil asked me.

I realized that I’d made my decision when I lowered my gun. Enough blood had been spilled here today.

I looked at Virgil’s gun and the black leather gloves he wore.

“Leave the gun,” I told him.

He didn’t move, but only looked at me.

“Is the gun clean?”

“Of course.”

“Then leave it,” I told him. “Don’t make it something we have to look for.”

VIRGIL

Tower’s face had softened but his eyes remained alert. His gun hung at this side. I didn’t think he’d shoot me, but I wasn’t about to play odds with a cop.

I exhaled slow and hard through my nose, forcing me to calm down and consider the situation. “I’ll drop it after you put your gun away.”

Tower gripped his gun tighter and his head shook slowly. “I can’t do that.”

I backed up slowly to the door, my arm extended behind me feeling for the door. In my other hand, my Glock stared harmlessly at the floor. “And I can’t turn my back on you.”

TOWER

Virgil was almost to the door.

“Then drop the gun when you get outside,” I told him. “I don’t care. This just has to be wrapped up tight.”

The big man nodded slowly, finally understanding that I wasn’t going to betray him. Virgil’s hand touched the push bar on the door and he hesitated for a second.

“Hey.”

Virgil’s face was impassive. “What?”

“Turn left when you get out that door. And run.”

Virgil gave me a nod and shoved the crash bar on the door. Light flooded the room as he slipped through the doorway. He was haloed by the light for a brief moment, then disappeared.

VIRGIL

The fresh April air greeted me when I moved outside. I dropped my gun as I sprinted away from the building and past Rowdy’s white van. Three loud cracks rang out, forcing me to pick up my pace.

I glanced over my shoulder searching for Tower and expecting to see a gun blazing away in his hand. When I saw nothing, I turned forward and continued to run, thankful for an honest cop.

Wednesday, April 21st 1421 hrs 1612 East Wales

TOWER

The door slammed shut and for a brief moment, I was engulfed in darkness.

After a second or two, my eyes readjusted to the low light in the room. I stared at Rowdy’s still form on the floor and the growing slick of dark blood spreading outward from what remained of his head.

I raised my gun and fired three quick shots at the door. I aimed for the doorjamb just to the right of the door. The bullets bit into the drywall and two by fours with a thud as the muzzle flashed in my hand.

When the echo of the shots died away, I stood still for a long moment, looking at the door through the tendrils of smoke, which rose from the barrel of my gun. The sulfuric odor of gunpowder mixed with the coppery smell of blood and filled the air.

I took several deep breaths, trying to think and not wanting to think, all at the same time.

You screwed up, John.

I sniffed at the smell that hung heavily in the air.

You killed him, as sure as if you pulled the trigger.

I cleared my throat and that sound in the still air startled me. I slid my Glock back into the holster. I walked over to the door and pushed the crash bar, swinging the door open into the sunlight. Virgil’s gun lay on the dirt path near the back door. I left it there.

I stepped back into the building and hurried toward the small room where Rowdy had tied up the girl. As I passed Hiero’s gun on the floor, I snatched it up and put it in the small of my back, covered by my sport coat. Inside the room, the degrading pose and the brutality of the object inside her sent a shot of rage through my belly.

I pulled the grotesque green piece of plastic from her and set it on the bed, resisting the urge to hurl it against the wall. An open folding knife with a blackened tip lay on the ground near the shattered boom box. I used it to cut the girl free. Her legs sprung downward as soon as I cut the rope and she flopped loosely onto her side.

My fingers found her carotid artery and I was almost immediately rewarded with a faint, lethargic heartbeat.

She was alive.

I removed my jacket and covered with it. A little of it was for warmth. The rest was for dignity.

A small moan escaped her lips.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered to her, even though she probably couldn’t hear me.

I wanted to take her to my car and keep her there until medics arrived. But I couldn’t turn my car into a crime scene. The weight in the small of my back told me that.

I was desperate to comfort the girl and call her by name, but I remembered she hadn’t told me that night I saw her on Sprague and she’d been so angry about her dead brother. I settled for stroking her shoulder twice through my jacket, before turning and walking as fast as I could out of the room.

As I left the building the brisk air of April hit me like an icy wall. I realized how much I had been sweating when cold bit into me at my underarms, chest and neck. I could even feel the cold air on my legs through my slacks as I trotted toward my car and unlocked the door. Once I started the car, I reached across the passenger seat and opened the glove box. I put Hiero’s gun inside and slammed it shut.

Up the block, I could see the first curious heads poking out of windows. A pair of pedestrians came around the corner and stared up the street. Things were in motion. The show was about to start.

I took a deep breath and reached for the radio mike.

Wednesday April 21 st The Hole, 2:35 PM

VIRGIL

It took me fifteen minutes to get to The Hole after leaving Tower and Rowdy. I ran through the rundown neighborhood that survives to the north side of Sprague, eventually slowing down to a slight jog and then a walk. I pulled off my gloves and shoved them into a pocket. With a pair of shaky hands, I fired up a Camel and inhaled deeply into my lungs which already burned from the run and the brisk April air. I coughed several times before tossing the cigarette into the street and cursing myself.

As I walked, I heard several sirens in the area but none of them zoomed down any of the back streets I took. I knew all of them were running to the aid of Tower.

Once inside The Hole, the smell of stale beer and desperation greeted me like a comfortable old shoe. I ambled over to the bar and dropped onto a torn up stool. The bartender waddled over to me and put his arms on the marred counter in front of me. His enormous stomach struggled against the Seattle Seahawks shirt he wore.

“What’ll it be, pal?” he asked with a husky voice.

I suddenly felt weary and just wanted to lay down and fall asleep. You got any Jack Daniels?” I finally asked

He nodded his meaty head.

From a pocket, I pulled out a ten dollar bill and laid it on the counter.

While the bartender made my drink, I stepped over to the phone booth in the back corner. I pushed some quarters into the machine and punched a few buttons. Andie picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” she asked, her voice soft and unaware.

I held the phone to my ear for a moment before saying softly, “It’s over.”

Before she could answer, I hung up. I then dug out my pre-paid phone card, hit some more buttons and was greeted by a thick voice announcing, “Bobo’s House of Chicken.”

“Jay, it’s me.”

“What up, my man?” His voice had a sense of lightheartedness that seemed out of place in my world.

“Tell him that my work up here is finished. I’ll be leaving as soon as I can.”

The playfulness in his voice faded away and he turned serious. “Want me to have him call you? I know he’s been worried about you.”

“No. Just pass that message.”

“You got it.”

I hung the phone up and returned to the bar. My Jack and Coke sat on the counter next to the change for my ten. With a single pull, I finished the drink and winced as the cold liquid played havoc with my broken teeth. When the pain subsided, I waved at the bartender for another. He shrugged and nodded at the same time. I wasn’t sure what the hell that meant so I let it slide.

When the fat man brought the drink over, I said, “Call River City Taxi and ask for Axel.”

He nodded and shuffled off to the phone behind the bar. I grabbed my drink and walked over to a booth and settled in.

Ten minutes later, I had my head leaned back on the booth when the door swung open and I heard a cane tap on the floor. I lifted my head. Rolo walked over to me with Rhonda close behind. Rolo was in a bright red jacket that fell to his knees. Even though the color was wrong, the puffy jacket still had the Raiders logo on the front. Rhonda was in a short, black leather jacket and a shorter black dress.

“Get me a drink, baby,” Rolo said before he fell in to the booth across from me.

Rhonda clicked her high heels over to the bar and leaned both of her arms on the dented brass rail that ran its length. Her ass stuck out highlighting her best feature for any takers.

“How’s business?” I asked.

He scrunched up his face for a moment before answering. “The same. Times is tight, but I manage. I’ll roll with the punches until I get my opportunity to punch back.”

“I think it’s going to improve real soon.”

His eyes widened and he leaned in over the table. “No shit?”

Through the front window of the bar, I saw a white River City Taxi pull up. I shifted my gaze back to Rolo and stood up. “I think the whole market is gonna break open for you today.”

Rolo laughed and slapped the table. When I turned toward the door Rhonda was standing next to me with a couple of drinks in her hands. “Hey, there,” she said with a smile. “What’s so funny?”

The big pimp pointed up at me. “This is the man, baby. If he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave, I’d make sure you gave him a trip around the world. On the house.”

Rhonda cocked her head and lifted her eyebrows. “Whaddya say? Got time for a little adventure?”

I shook my head. “Not today. Maybe some other time.”

Rhonda shrugged and slid into the booth across from Rolo. I extended my hand to the black man. “Thanks for your help.”

He grabbed my hand and shook it. “It’s been nice doin’ business with you.”

When I climbed in to the cab, Axel looked over at me. “Tough day?”

I smiled at him. “You can say that.”

“Where to?”

“The Davenport.”

Axel turned back forward, put the cab into gear and we lurched away from the curb. A few minutes later, the cabbie looked into the rear view mirror and caught my eye. “Want some music?”

“Yeah, actually, that sounds good. Make it a seventies station, if you got it.”

“Oh, yeah, we got a great station for those tunes.”

Axel reached over and flicked the radio on. Dobie Gray’s smooth voice filled the cab as he serenaded us with Drift Away.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for the rest of the trip.

She was sitting cross-legged in the chair when I walked into the hotel room. Her legs were bare except for the green dragon tattoo and she had on an over-sized black sweatshirt. Gina’s hair was tucked behind her ears and a cigarette smoldered in her hand.

Her eyes were concerned as she climbed out of the chair and met me halfway. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“It’s done?”

Another nod.

She wrapped her arms around me and hugged. I let myself fall into her embrace and I smelled her clean scent. I held her close and let the warmth of her body work through mine.

Gina broke the embrace and looked up to me. “What do we do now?”

Wednesday, April 21st 1701 hrs 1612 East Wales-Crime Scene

TOWER

I sat on the bumper of Lieutenant Crawford’s car, holding a small Styrofoam cup of coffee between my hands. The entire block was crawling with detectives, crime-scene techs and patrol officers. Every possible kind of lookie-loo gathered at the edge of the yellow crime-scene tape at the end of the block, watching the high drama of a homicide scene.

The light windbreaker someone had given me did little to break the chill I was feeling. The rotgut coffee in my cup tasted like turpentine, but at least it was hot.

Rowdy was dead.

Because of me.

“A complete mess, Tower.” Crawford’s analysis broke into my private reverie.

I raised my eyes to his and considered telling him where to go, but the Deputy Chief appeared at my right.

“Leave him be, Crawford,” he said. “Why don’t you go find out when the Chaplain will be here, huh? And make sure that the patrol units on perimeter get relief.”

Crawford shot me a dirty look but muttered a “yes, sir” before shuffling off, chewing on his unlit cigar.

The Deputy Chief stared after him, then looked at me and shook his head. “And they say Civil Service is a blessing.”

I shrugged.

The Deputy Chief gave me a knowing nod and clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Anything you need, you let me know. All right?”

I nodded at him absently.

“Anything,” he said pointedly.

I cleared my throat and said, “Thanks.”

He clapped me on the shoulder again and walked away toward the media vans at the opposite end of the street. I followed him with my gaze and then realized that the whole exchange had almost certainly been on camera. Everyone in River City would see what a great leader he was.

“John?”

I turned to look at Detective Ray Browning. His brow was furrowed in concern.

“Yeah?”

“Listen, John, I just need to get some things straight with you before…well, before other people are asking.”

I felt panic clawing in my stomach, but tried to remain outwardly calm. “Go ahead,” I said.

Browning rubbed his eyebrows. “Well, I’m just asking here, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And this is just between us, okay? I mean, this can be out of school, if you want it to be.”

“Does it need to be?”

“Yeah, probably. Hell, I don’t know.” He looked me directly in the eye. “John, you gotta know that Crawford and Hart are both going to climb your ass over this.”

“I know.”

“This cowboy stuff…it isn’t the way of the world anymore.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I know.”

Browning watched me for a moment, then asked, “When did you know Cody Heinz was the suspect in your homicide cases?”

I told Browning everything I could and only left out what I had to. His lips tightened when I admitted to talking to the Brotherhood at their clubhouse because it meant I’d stepped all over his case involving the Sammy G. homicide.

“Do you know who killed Sammy G.?”

“No,” I told him without hesitation.

Browning eyed me curiously. “You know that fire over at the Palms last night?”

“I haven’t heard.”

“Structure fire,” he said. “Burned up most of the place. Three dead bodies were found in one room. All of them were BSC. Funny thing is, it looks like they were dead before the fire started.”

I didn’t reply. My stomach was churning, though. I knew in an instant that somehow Virgil Kelley was to blame for those three, too. How many people had he murdered trying to get to Rowdy? Four? Five?

Doesn’t matter, I thought. What matters is that you helped him murder the last one.

“An awful lot of BSC are dying around here lately,” Browning said, still watching me.

Crawford appeared at the front of the car again. “Tower, I told you to get your ass off of my car,” Crawford said, adjusting his belt and switching the cigar to his left hand.

“We’re almost done here,” Browning broke in, “and then I think someone should run John to the station or home.”

Crawford sniffed and nodded. “Yeah, okay. Finish up.” He gave another puff on his cigar and waited.

Browning took out his notebook. “Now, John, you said that this guy Brian told you about Cody Heinz’s little hideout here-“

“Rowdy.”

Browning looked up. “Okay. Rowdy, then. So what happened when you got here?”

I took a breath and let it out. “I got here and walked up to the office. I heard music and yelling inside and saw that the door was forced. I figured the situation was exigent and so I made entry. Once inside-“

“Why didn’t you call for back-up?” Crawford asked.

“I left my radio in the car.”

“Not very smart.”

I shrugged. “A mistake.”

“What happened once you were inside, John?” Browning asked.

“Almost as soon as I got inside, the music stopped and I heard some yelling. A couple of seconds later, I heard a gunshot.”

“One?”

I nodded.

“Go on.”

“I went down the hallway and saw Rowdy laying on the ground and a white male standing over the top of him with a gun.”

“Did he match the description Mrs. Taylor and Brian Osmond gave you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it coulda been the same guy.”

Browning jotted something in his notebook. “Then what happened?”

“Before I could do or say anything, he bolted for the back door. I fired three shots at him but I don’t think I hit him.”

“Why didn’t you chase him?” Crawford asked.

I looked at Crawford and wondered when the last time he chased anybody was. “I started to. Then I saw the girl.”

“You mean the crime scene you completely destroyed?” Crawford said.

I gave another shrug.

“You may think you’re some kind of supercop, Tower, but I got news for you. You screwed up this crime scene worse than any rookie could. You failed to keep me updated on developments in your case, even when you had to know you had a serial killer situation. And from what this Osmond kid is telling Billings right now, Lieutenant Hart is going to have you in Internal Affairs for an ass-reaming. I wouldn’t plan on staying in Major Crimes much longer, if I were you.”

“Whatever,” I muttered.

“What was that?” Crawford asked, his tone sharp.

I fixed him with an even gaze. “I said, whatever. Lieutenant.”

Crawford eyed me for another long moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue listing my sins for me. Maybe adding insubordination to the list. Finally, he spat on the ground next to my feet, shook his head and stalked away.

As I watched him go, Browning touched my shoulder. “You’re taking on the Crawfish now?”

“I’ve got no time for his bullshit.”

“You need to go home, John. I’ll have a uniform give you a ride.”

“No, I can drive.”

Browning pressed his lips together.

“Unless you’re holding my car,” I said.

Browning thought about for a minute, then shook his head. “All you did was call radio from it, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’m not holding it.”

I nodded my thanks, but Browning held my gaze. “I just need to know something from you, John.”

“What?”

“Mistakes aside, can I investigate this knowing that everything is squared away?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Browning didn’t stop looking at me. “It means that aside from the business of not bringing in backup or other detectives and whatever happened at that kid Osmond’s house, is everything square on this case?”

“It’s all square.”

“And you’re sure?”

I gave him an unwavering stare directly into his eyes. “You ever known me to lie, Ray?”

Browning slowly shook his head.

“Okay, then,” I said and turned away. My stomach felt like there were streams of acid roiling inside it and my chest was heavy. I started walking toward my car.

“John!”

I turned back to Browning, wondering if he’d have his gun in one hand and his cuffs in the other. But he only stood at the front of Crawford’s car, watching me.

“Yeah?”

“Brittany. The girl inside is named Brittany Gardner. I thought you might want to know.”

My throat constricted and I couldn’t answer out loud. Instead, I gave him a nod of thanks and walked to my car. When the engine started up, I could feel the wetness on my cheeks and was surprised at it. I cruised slowly out of the outer crime scene and under the perimeter tape that the uniform officer lifted. He looked sixteen years old, though I knew he had to be at least twenty-one to be on the job. I hoped briefly that he hadn’t noticed the tears on my face, then I didn’t care.

Thursday, April 22 nd Davenport Hotel, Late Morning

VIRGIL

Her eyes stared up at me as I held her in my hands. The eyes were bright and blue, a sense of excitement dancing behind them. Her lips were forever frozen in a large beaming smile, exposing perfect white teeth. Several freckles dotted her checks and a small dimple showed on the right side of her face.

“I did it, Fawn,” I said softly to the picture.

I was sitting alone in my hotel room, in the same chair Gina’s body had warmed only an hour before.

The tears stung my eyes and rolled down my face.

“I’m a fuckin’ pussy,” I mumbled to myself. I tucked her picture into my jacket pocket and wiped my eyes with the palms of my hands.

With a quick snatch, I grabbed my bag off of the bed and left the hotel room.

Gina met me down in the hotel lobby. She stood when she saw me get off of the elevator. She wore her black sweatshirt with Levi’s and white running shoes.

“You all right?” she asked.

”Yeah.”

She slipped her hand into mine and escorted me out to her beat-up Toyota which sat behind a black limousine with the Davenport logo on it.

I tossed my bag into the trunk before climbing in to the passenger’s seat. Gina started the car after a few mis-fires and we pulled away from the curb.

“Listen,” she said, “I hope you know you can trust me.” Her eyes flicked over to me and then back to the road. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking that you took a big chance by asking me for help.”

I watched her as she spoke.

“You might have done that without much thinking down the road. So now you’re wondering how you make sure I won’t say anything.”

Gina changed lanes to get around a slower Mercedes. “I just want to let you know that you don’t have to worry about me. You did this for your daughter. I helped you for Serena. The goal was the same. I’m in this as much as you.”

I faced forward and looked out the window as she pulled into the parking lot of the combination Greyhound/Amtrak station. She swung the car around into a parking spot near the front of the building. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the car off.

We sat quietly for a few minutes until she spoke. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a drop box in case you need to get a hold of me. I check it once or twice a month, so don’t expect an immediate answer.”

She pulled the piece of paper from my fingers and read it. “Who’s Dave Semenko?”

“It’s just a name on the P.O. box. An old hockey player.”

“Is Virgil your real name?”

“Virgil is as real as I’ve got anymore.”

Gina reached over and slipped her hand behind my neck. She pulled me into her and kissed me. Her lips parted for me one final time. When we broke, her eyes were wet and she patted me on the leg. “You need to catch a train.”

I rubbed my thumb gently over her lips. “Thanks,” I said softly and climbed out of the car.

Thursday, April 22 nd 1612 hrs, Open Bible Church Parking Lot

TOWER

The days were getting longer. That’s what the woman on the radio said to start out her one-minute plant advice radio spot. The days are getting longer and all of our green leafy friends will be enjoying more sunlight.

I switched off the radio and shifted in my seat. The parking lot at the Oak Avenue Open Bible Church was empty except for a 1970 or 1971 Chevy Nova parked right next to the office entrance. Being it was a four-door, I figured it belonged to the Church Pastor.

Traffic was sparse on Indiana Street just to the north and no one paid any attention to me parked in the far corner of the parking lot under the yawning limbs of an oak tree. I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, then back out through the windshield. The silence inside my car was heavy and I lowered the window to let in some of the outside world. The rumbling hum of the car’s engine mixed with the occasional sounds of traffic and the voices of children down the block on Oak Avenue.

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. Echoes from the last twenty-four hours rang in my ears and images flashed unbidden behind my eyes.

Brittany Gardner’s slack mouth and bloody thighs.

Virgil Kelley’s hard eyes.

The crack of a Glock and the wet splat of Rowdy’s head being torn apart.

Lieutenant Crawford’s cigar smoke and sarcasm.

Ray Browning’s doubt.

Then, this morning, came the long list of questions from Lieutenant Hart in Internal Affairs, who had supplanted Browning as the primary investigator of what was now termed an “incident.” Browning was to re-investigate the Fawn Taylor case and the Serena Gonzalez case, as well as the shooting of Cody Heinz. Lieutenant Hart would review all three for any violations of policy or any improprieties.

I tried to remember the flow of the questioning and wondered if I had made any mistakes. I’d lain awake almost the entire night considering how to play my hand. It wasn’t a consideration I’d ever really had to make before, at least not of this magnitude. I’d danced up to the line before and maybe even reached across the threshold for the right reasons. But I’d finally crossed it.

And now I was an accessory to murder.

Hart was all over me for not using backup, for not making the proper advisements to Crawford and Browning as my case developed and for messing up Browning’s case on Sammy G.

“You’re responsible for Cody Heinz’s death, Tower, and for his killer getting away,” he accused me, his voice outraged.

More than you realize, Lieutenant, I thought.

I tapped my fingers absently on the steering wheel and watched traffic scroll by, trying to stifle my thoughts.

Did I make any mistakes in IA?

Would they be able to find Virgil Kelley? If they did, what would he say?

Were there any witnesses near the office building that saw him go in and then me go in? Will they remember the timing of the shots?

To hell with it. I couldn’t control any of that. It all depended on chance and circumstance and how good of an investigator Hart was and how much Browning chose to investigate.

A small blue pickup truck slowed along Indiana and turned into the parking lot. I watched as the vehicle approached and pulled alongside my driver’s side window. Paul Hiero was alone in the cab and he looked about as ragged as I felt. He gave me a nervous nod.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I reached over to the passenger seat and picked up his gun. I’d wrapped it in a black T-shirt. He watched me as I held it through my open window.

“What’s that?”

“Take it,” I told him.

Hiero reached out and took it from my hand. As soon as he felt the weight of the handgun, his eyes widened slightly. He swallowed hard and put the package on the seat next to him.

“Where, uh, where’d you get it?” He avoided my eyes when he asked.

I stared at the cuts and bruises still evident on his face. “I found it,” I told him. “And as far as anyone else knows, I never had it.”

Hiero nodded and swallowed hard again. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Are you still mixed up with that girl?” I asked him.

Hiero bit his lip briefly, then nodded his head. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

“That’s trouble. You know that, right?”

He glanced down at the T-shirt on the seat beside him. “Yeah, I know. I just can’t cut loose of her.”

I didn’t reply and instead stared off at the spires of the courthouse six blocks away.

Hiero continued, his voice tightening. “It’s just not that easy for me right now, Tower. My life is completely screwed. She’s about the only good thing I’ve got going. I know it’s messed up, but at least with her, I feel like-“

I raised my hand in front of my face and shook my head briefly. “Don’t,” I told him. “I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need to know your demons and you don’t need to know mine.”

Hiero was quiet for a moment. Then, “I owe you.”

I shook my head. “No. You don’t owe me.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “And I won’t forget. So thanks.”

Hiero put the Ford in gear and backed away, then shifted forward and cruised out of the lot.

I watched his truck turn left and cruise away on Indiana.

There was no reason to sit in the lot any longer, but I let the engine idle and stared absently out the window. The breeze outside my car window picked up slightly and I could hear the rush of air through the oak branches. I closed my eyes and focused on the flitter-flatter of the leaves. I listened to their many soft voices.

I listened for the truth.

I listened for a long while.

And when I thought I’d finally heard it whispered on the air, I accepted it, dropped the car into gear and drove slowly home.

Content

Frank Zafiro
Some Degree of Murder

Sunday, April 11, 2005 Bus Station, Early Evening

Monday, April 12th 0214 hrs 300 North Erie Street

Monday, April 12 th 0554 hrs Investigative Division

Monday, April 12 th Davenport Hotel, Morning

Tuesday, April 13th Davenport Hotel, Morning

Tuesday, April 13 th 1310 hrs Investigative Division

Tuesday, April 13th Davenport Hotel Lobby, Early Afternoon

Tuesday, April 13 th 1542 hrs En route to the Taylor Residence

Tuesday, April 13 th Aphrodite’s Greek Restaurant, Dinner

Wednesday, April 14 th 1117 hrs Investigative Division

Wednesday, April 14 th Natalia Romanov’s House, Early Afternoon

Wednesday, April 14 th 1904 hrs Club Tip Top

Wednesday, April 14th East Sprague Bus Stop, Evening

Thursday, April 15th 2312 hrs 507 West Corbin

Thursday, April 15th Lazy J Diner, Morning

Thursday, April 15 th 1019 hrs Investigative Division

Thursday, April 15th Victorino’s Grocery, Noon

Thursday, April 15 th 1611 hrs 507 West Corbin

Thursday, April 15th Palms Motel, Late afternoon

Friday, April 16 th 0941 hrs Investigative Division

Saturday, April 17th Palms Motel, Morning

Saturday, April 17 th 1645 hrs 507 W. Corbin

Saturday April 17 th Palms Motel, Early evening

Sunday, April 18 th 2114 hrs East Sprague Corridor

Sunday, April 18th Davenport Hotel, Early evening

Monday, April 19 th 0834 hrs Taylor Residence

Monday, April 19 th Davenport Hotel, Late Morning

Tuesday, April 20 th 0730 hrs 507 W. Corbin

Tuesday, April 20 th Sprague Avenue, Late Morning

Wednesday, April 21 st 1045 hrs Investigative Division

Wednesday, April 21 st Late Morning, Davenport Hotel

Wednesday, April 21 st 1319 hrs Special Services Unit

Wednesday, April 21 st 3124 West Fairmont, 1:30 PM

Wednesday, April 21 st 1338 hrs En route to 3124 West Fairmont

Wednesday, April 21 st Wales/Magnolia, 2:12 PM

Wednesday, April 21 st 1414 hrs 1612 East Wales

Wednesday, April 21 st Abandoned Office Building at 1612 East Wales 2:17 PM

Wednesday, April 21st 1421 hrs 1612 East Wales

Wednesday April 21 st The Hole, 2:35 PM

Wednesday, April 21st 1701 hrs 1612 East Wales-Crime Scene

Thursday, April 22 nd Davenport Hotel, Late Morning

Thursday, April 22 nd 1612 hrs, Open Bible Church Parking Lot