Читать книгу Milk and Honey - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 10

The Hollywood substation was a brick building—square and windowless—landscaped with three Monterey pines sprouting from a rectangular patch of dirt. Across the street were the requisite cheap motel—a place to spend the night when your man was in jail—and two bailbonds’ store-fronts whose doors never closed.

Decker climbed the front steps and entered the reception area. The room was walled with redbrick and yellow plaster, the front desk colored Day-Glo orange. The flooring was ancient yellow tile, the grout permanently blackened. In the center of the room, inlaid in the tile, was a red-and-black granite “Hollywood Boulevard” pavement star, the words LAPD HOLLYWOOD STATION #6 inlaid in brass. A hype was leaning against a coke machine, swaying on his feet to keep his balance. A fat man stood against the side wall, sipping coffee, checking his watch against the station’s clock. Two teenage black girls, wearing shorts and tank tops, sat on the attached bench at the back of the room, their fingers twirling the cornrows of their hair, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed upon the star as if it represented a myriad of fallen dreams.

Decker showed his gold badge to the desk sergeant and went inside the detectives’ reception room. The detective manning the phones had an amoebic ink stain on the pocket of his shirt. He was balding and needed a shave.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Decker from Foothill,” Decker said. “I’m looking for George Andrick.” He showed the detective his badge.

“I’m Rados,” he said. He regarded the chalkboard duty roster. “Andrick’s on Robbery. He’s in the field. Should be back soon.”

“Then I’ll grab myself some coffee and wait at his desk.”

Rados handed Decker an unused Styrofoam cup. “Help yourself to the swill in the back.”

“Thanks.”

Cup in hand, Decker entered the squad room. It was bigger than Foothill’s, carpeted, and had metal desks instead of tables. Each unit was indicated by burnt-wood signs hanging from the ceiling. Robbery was in the back, left side, sandwiched between the lockers and CAPS—crimes against persons. Andrick’s place of honor was in the middle-left of a capital I-shaped arrangement of desks. A supervising detective sat at the head of the I, reading a memo, his lips curled into a sneer. He looked to be in his late forties, his face scored with wrinkles, his shoulders packed with muscle. He noticed Decker’s badge and stood. They were about the same height.

“Medino,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Decker. I called earlier. I understand Andrick was the field investigator for a rape case couple of days ago. Perp was booked here, transferred downtown. His name was Abel Atwater.”

Medino said. “The gimp.”

“That’s him.”

“Scrawny thing.”

“I’d like to look over the file.”

“Andrick has it locked, and I don’t have the key.”

“I’ll wait.”

Medino shrugged. “Suit yourself. Coffeepot’s over to the right.”

“Thanks.”

Decker poured himself a cup—black mud. He sipped as he walked back to the desk. “You guys have gotten carpets and new desks.”

“No thanks to the city. Some civilian donated them. Only thing the city’s given us this past year was a few push-button phones. Their idea of state-of-the-art equipment.”

“At least you got the phones.”

“Yeah,” Medino said. “But only one per unit. City doesn’t want us to become too spoiled. The individual dicks still have rotaries. Just look at the crappy colors they give us—pinks and blues and reds. Now how can you have a professional image with a pink phone? Place looks like a nursery school.”

“I noticed the playpen back there.”

Medino nodded. “We get our share of kids dumped at the doorstep.”

“I just got one of those,” Decker said. “She wasn’t dumped at the station. I found her wandering the streets. No one’s claimed her.”

“How old?”

“Two.”

“Black?”

“White.”

Medino shrugged.

Decker said, “Her pajamas had blood on them.”

“That’s unusual,” Medino said. “Kid okay?”

“Appears to be fine,” Decker said. “Can’t say I’m feeling too optimistic about her mama, though.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Medino said. “What’s your connection to the gimp? He wanted for something out there?”

“He’s an old buddy of mine,” Decker said.

Medino whistled. “You should start hunting for some new friends.”

“How deep is his shit?”

“From what I remember, neck high and still rising.”

“What do you know about the victim?” Decker said. “Besides the fact that she was a whore.”

“Not much more than that,” Medino said.

“Do you know if she had a rep for tricking with rough johns?”

“No idea,” Medino said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try Vice?”

Decker asked, “Chris Beauchamps still work Vice here?”

“Baby-faced Beau?” Medino said. “You bet. One of our best undercover men. Looks so fucking sincere. I think he came in about an hour ago. Go up and talk to him. I’ll buzz you when Andrick is back on my nifty new push-button intercom. LAPD goes high tech.”

“Myra Steele,” Beauchamps said. “Yeah, I’ve got a file on her somewhere.”

Decker stared at the Vice detective, finding it hard to take the kid seriously. Surfer-blond hair, deep blue eyes, Malibu tan—the kind of looks that screamed party hardy, let’s shoot the curl.

Beauchamps pulled out a folder and said, “Here we go. Old Myra Steele, aka Plum Pie, Cherry Pie, Brown Sugar—a lot of them use that moniker.” He handed Decker a file. “The only thing I have on her was a bust three months ago.”

“That bust happened when Letwoine Monroe was still her pimp,” Decker said, scanning the papers. “Before he was whacked.”

“Right,” Beauchamps said.

Decker asked, “Was he whacked in Hollywood?”

“I don’t know where he was whacked, but we found him here, stuffed in the trunk of a black Caddy stolen from North Hollywood.”

Decker said. “Myra Steele doesn’t look eighteen to me. She barely looks pubescent.”

“Her birth certificate says eighteen,” Beauchamps said. “And she’s pubescent, believe me. I’ve seen her on the streets couple of times since, her tits are more than ample for the halters she wears. Those photos knock a couple of years off of her.”

“Who’s Myra’s old man now?” Decker asked.

“Letwoine’s ladies were divided by the other pimps in the area,” Beauchamps said. “Some went to a Mideastern prick named Yusef Sabib, some went to Willy Black, a couple went to Clementine—”

Decker groaned.

“I thought he was your buddy,” Beauchamps said, smiling.

Straight white teeth. Guy should be selling toothpaste instead of busting whores.

Decker said, “Everyone needs a pet maggot. Do you know who Steele went with?”

“No,” Beauchamps said. “And she didn’t volunteer his name when Andrick asked her. I know that ’cause Andrick asked me if I knew the name of her man. I put the word out, but so far have come up blank. There’s some new dudes in town—Cubans. Marielitos. Meanest sons of bitches I’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with. Into weird cult things—”

“Santeria?”

“You got it.”

“I worked with Miami PD for two years,” Decker said. “We had our fair share of Castro’s rejects.”

“So you know about the dudes,” Beauchamps said. “They threaten grave bodily harm to women with loose lips. Might be one of them owns Myra.”

“They have names?”

“I’ve crossed paths with only two. They actually weren’t so bad, because they were really young. But their older brothers and father …” Beauchamps waved his hand in the air and pursed his lips into a whistle. “One called himself Conquistador, the other was El Cid.”

Decker laughed.

“Yeah, real imaginative tags.” Beauchamps paused, then said, “Why are you so interested in Ms. Steele’s pimp?”

“I just want to know who he is,” Decker said. “A friend of mine was accused of raping ole Plum Pie, and before I pass sentence on the sucker, I’d like to make sure he’s really guilty of the crime.”

“The hillbilly gimp,” Beauchamps said.

Decker looked up. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“I was here when they booked him,” Beauchamps said. “They say he fucked her up pretty bad.”

“Well, he screwed her,” Decker said. “No doubt about that. But I don’t think he cut her.”

“You’re saying the pimp slashed her and she laid it on your friend?”

“It’s a possibility,” Decker said.

“Anything’s a possibility. Just a matter of how much you want to play ostrich.” Beauchamps paused. “I busted your buddy a while back.”

Decker winced. “When?”

“A year, maybe two years ago.”

“What for?”

“Soliciting an undercover police officer.”

“Female officer?”

“Yeah,” Beauchamps said, grinning. “She was female. I worked the van. He was hobbling around the mean streets, saw our lady, and took the bait. Didn’t seem the least bit upset when he was arrested.”

Decker said, “Know if he was ever arrested for anything else?”

“You haven’t checked to see if he had priors?”

Decker shook his head. “I’d better stop acting like a dick and start acting like a dick.”

Beauchamps burst into laughter. “Loser friends can take it out of you. I had this old high school buddy, a real rotten SOB, but at sixteen, I thought he was great fun. He’s at Folsom now, and he keeps telling all his washed-out mutant relatives to contact me if they get into trouble. I don’t think a week’s gone by where one of those nut cases hasn’t called me up and asked for a favor or free advice. God, that jerk has caused me nothing but grief.”

“Did he give you a hard time?” Decker asked.

“Who? My loser buddy? Constantly.”

“No,” Decker said. “My loser buddy.”

“Not while he was here,” Beauchamps said. “Very cooperative. Served his time down here and that was it. He was a weird guy, Decker. Used to wash his hands about six times a day.”

“An LB,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A Lady Macbether,” Decker said. “Some of the guys in the platoon had a hard time washing away the blood and guts.”

“He was an army buddy of yours?”

“I hate that term—army buddy.”

Beauchamps shrugged. “Want me to get his rap sheet?”

“Yeah.”

Beauchamps punched Abel Atwater into the computer. A few minutes later, he handed the printout to Decker.

“Three priors,” Beauchamps said. “All for trying to buy undercover pussy. Horny little bugger.”

“It ain’t nice, but not exactly sexual assault,” Decker said.

“Maybe Myra made him real mad.”

Decker said, “Why would Myra Steele keep quiet about her pimp if he didn’t have anything to do with the assault? You’d think she’d get in touch with him first thing.”

“I don’t know what was inside the lady’s head, but I’ll tell you this. Some of the ass-peddlers get real pissed at their ladies for getting beat up—treat them like damaged goods. Hers probably has a vile temper, and maybe she doesn’t want any more pain.”

“She still in the hospital?”

“For sure. Likely to be there a while.”

“Where?”

Beauchamps shrugged ignorance.

“Know who’s paying the bill?” Decker asked.

“Nope. But I suspect she’s at County, and the city’s footing the expenses.” Beauchamps’s phone rang. He answered the call and said, “Andrick’s back.”

“Super.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Torres and Hoersch were the first unit to respond to the four-fifteen hotshot,” Andrick said. He was in his late fifties, overweight, with a florid complexion. “There was a lot of commotion, a lot of blood, and they immediately called it in as an ambulance cutting. I got there about fifteen minutes later. The girl was being loaded onto the stretcher, your friend was cuffed, crying and bleeding from a huge gash across his head.”

Andrick unlocked his file cabinet and loosened his tie. Decker noticed he was breathing heavily, sweat stained his armpits.

“You okay?” Decker asked.

Andrick said, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You don’t look so hot.”

“I said I’m okay,” Andrick answered tightly.

“Fine,” Decker said. “You’re okay. Can I see the file?”

Andrick tossed him the folder. Decker read a moment, then said, “The ambulance took the girl. Who took Atwater to the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” Andrick said. “Someone must have called another, because they didn’t put the two of them in the same wagon.”

“Nobody was tending to Atwater’s head wound all this time?” Decker asked.

“Look,” Andrick said, unbuttoning his shirt, “you got a victim, you got a perp. One ambulance. You’re gonna lose some sleep because some rape-o asshole bled to death?”

“No.” Decker scanned the file. “You heard him say this? Or is this what the uniforms reported that he said?”

“Nope,” Andrick said. “Everything I wrote down in my notes, I heard with my own ears … What exactly did I write?”

Decker read, “‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Fuck, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.’”

Andrick said, “Yeah, I heard him say that. Those kind of statements don’t do much to clear your good name. Is it hot in here?”

“A little,” Decker said absently. Lost in thought, he remembered Abel uttering similar words before. One particular memory suddenly flooded Decker’s consciousness. Heavy fire. A gutted village. A little girl around six, her belly blown away. Abel standing over her, his eyes watering from all the smoke. He had whispered it:

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt anybody, honest to God, I didn’t.

Ugly recollections. He pushed them away and looked up at Andrick. His coloring had become pale, his skin pasty, dripping with sweat.

“Jesus!” Decker whispered. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“A minute.” Andrick looked around. Medino had gone to the john. It was safe. He yanked open his desk drawer, and with shaking hands opened a vial of tablets. He placed a pill underneath his tongue.

A minute later, Decker said, “How long do you think you can hide your condition from the department?”

“What condition?” Andrick said. “I’m sucking on a peppermint.”

“A peppermint?”

“Yeah, a fucking peppermint,” Andrick said. “Keeps my breath fresh … Look, Detective, I’ve got two more years before I cash in twenty-five big ones and a nice-size pension. We’ve got the condo in Murietta Hot Springs, two daughters in college, I need that extra ten percent to make ends meet, you know what I’m saying? So if you want to talk about the case, that’s all right by me. If not, find the door.”

Medino came back to his desk. Andrick cleared his throat. Decker understood the hint. He said, “Where’s Myra Steele now?”

“Originally, they took her to Hollywood Pres, but her mom moved her to County because she didn’t have any insurance.”

Decker said, “Mind if I have a word with Myra?”

“Be my guest,” Andrick said. “She should be there at least another week. Why all the interest in this case?”

Decker explained his involvement.

“And you think your scuzzbag friend is innocent?”

“I’m withholding judgment.”

Andrick sat back in his chair and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. He felt much better, was breathing easier. “So what are you gonna do with Myra Steele? Grill her until she retracts what she said?”

Decker said, “Hell no! If the sucker did it, I’ll kill him for doing that to her and making an ass out of me. But for starters, I’d like to know who’s pimping her.”

“You won’t get the name from her.”

“I can try.”

“Sure,” Andrick said. “Try.” He gave Decker a wary half-smile. “And if you get it from her, you’ll give it to me, right?”

“Absolutely,” Decker said. “I’m not playing hot dog.”

“Just so you and I understand each other.”

“It’s your collar, Detective,” Decker said. “I don’t dance with anyone else’s woman,’ cause I get pissed when someone dances with mine. I’d like to copy the file.”

“Go ahead,” Andrick said.

When Decker returned, Andrick said, “Your partner’s on the line.”

Decker picked up the phone and said, “What’s up?”

“I got a call from Delferno,” Marge said. “One of his pals says Sally looks like one of his kids. Mother’s from Sacramento. She should be down maybe one, two in the morning. Kid was grabbed by Dad about six months ago.”

“How old would her kid be?”

“About two and a half.”

“Sally’s not two and a half.”

“Delferno faxed me the picture of the missing kid—kid’s name is Heather Miller. She’s supposed to be small for her age, and there’s a strong resemblance.”

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

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

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

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

“Gonna cruise for sugar.”

Marge said, “Wear gloves.”

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

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

“We’re goin’.”

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

The girls began to reach into their purses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amanda.”

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

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

Decker said, “That all depends.”

“On what?” asked Amanda.

Decker said, “On if you cooperate.”

“Watchu want?” Amanda asked.

Decker smiled.

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

“Do what?”

“Do what you want,” Amanda said.

“What do I want?” Decker said.

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

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

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

“A little help.”

The girls were silent.

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

More silence.

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

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

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

“Chrissie,” she said.

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

“I might.”

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

“I mighta heard something like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bully for you,” said Amanda.

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

“Maynona,” she said.

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

“I don’t give a shit.”

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

“Maybe.”

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

“Maybe.”

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

“Maybe I don’t.”

“But maybe you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

The girls were silent.

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

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

“Maybe,” Amanda said.

“Do they have names?”

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

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

The girls didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure about that?” Decker said.

“Yes.”

“Does the name Conquistador ring a bell?”

Amanda sneered. “He’s a wimp.”

“El Cid?”

“Wimpo dos,” Amanda replied.

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

The whore drew her finger across her lips.

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

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

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

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

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

“Swear to God, that’s all I know,” May said. “We keep away from them.”

Decker believed her eyes if not her words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maynona raised her eyebrows. Decker caught it.

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

She didn’t answer.

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

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

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

She didn’t answer.

“Did he ever get freaky with you?”

She stayed silent.

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

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

“I’m not trying to, Amanda.”

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

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

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

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

“That so?” Decker said.

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

“Big Dick?” Decker asked.

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

Decker said, “Was Big Dick kinky?”

“Not with me,” Amanda answered.

“Sadistic?”

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

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

There was a moment of silence. Amanda broke it.

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

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

Amanda didn’t answer.

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

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