On his way to the hospital Dupree tapped his cell phone against the steering wheel, the phone number covering the screen. He’d been about to place the call—“Sorry, I’m gonna be late”—when he’d been drawn by something out his right window. It was one of those incongruities he sometimes got while driving, an image he had to convince himself he’d actually seen, that he wasn’t filling in details that weren’t there.
It was on the corner of a busy four-lane in a residential neighborhood, a few blocks from the Public Safety Building. A guy with a Mohawk haircut stood in a yard leaning against a car, in front of a sign. On the sign were written the words “Beanie Babies for Sale.” The car was an AMC Javelin from the early 1970s.
And that was it, but it had the effect of freezing Alan Dupree, so that two blocks later, when the light changed, he just sat there, staring out the passenger window, where the image had been. He composed the image again, disparate details from different times: a 1980s haircut leaning on a 1970s car in front of a sign offering 1990s toys for sale. Was that even it? Was that what unsettled
him, or was it some other memory, some dream, some other reference to that car or that haircut or Beanie Babies?
He looked down at the phone in his hand, at the number, and didn’t recognize it at first. His thumb rested on the send button and he must have pushed it without realizing, because he was caught off guard when the phone rang on the other end and she picked up quickly, saying “Hello” as if she had been waiting for the call, which of course she had.
He put the phone to his head, said, “Hey,” and snapped out of his trance. As he pulled out into the intersection, he was amazed to see the light change to yellow above him. How long had he sat there?
“Alan?”
He tried to remember what he was going to tell his wife. Everything felt so out of place, so
disturbed
. So unreal.
“Did you forget where we live?”
“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, clearing this fog. “I’m driving. I got distracted.”
“How late are you gonna be?” He could hear the TV in the background and tried to picture them, Debbie on the kitchen phone, the kids sprawled on the floor of the living room, engrossed in whatever was on Nickelodeon.
“Could be a while. At least an hour or two.”
“What’s going on?”
“I gotta go talk to a pawnshop owner who got shot last month.”
“I thought maybe it was the other thing.” Debbie had taken a deep interest in the serial killer investigation, more interest than she’d shown in his job in years.
“I’m just chasing my tail on that.” In fact he’d spent the morning going through a good-sized stack of worthless tips and the afternoon comparing the three Southbank murders with other unsolved murders in the area, including a couple of murdered hookers, trying to connect a few dots but coming up with nothing.
“Alan?”
He gripped the phone. “Yeah. Sorry. I was waiting for you to say something.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
When they had said good-bye and, as an afterthought, “I love
you,” Dupree pressed the phone against his head, then held it out in front of himself. He tried to remember the last pleasant call he’d made on this thing, this transmitter of anxiety. Of bad news. He turned into the hospital parking lot and parked in one of the spots in the emergency lot reserved for police officers. On the way up he stopped at a nurses’ station and bummed a cup of coffee, hoping to wake himself up. He rode the elevator with a nurse and a tiny boy with a shaved head, avoiding their eyes.
Pollard was pacing the hallway in the intensive care unit, his sports coat with the felt elbow patches draped over the back of a chair. “What took you so long?”
“Sorry, honey. I should’ve called.” He handed Pollard the five six-packs he’d requested—thirty mug shots in all, the same photo lineup they’d shown Caroline three weeks earlier.
Pollard jerked his head toward the hospital room and Dupree followed him inside. The light was dim, and something struck Dupree as odd about this hospital room. Then he realized: He’d never seen a hospital room that didn’t have flowers or cards in it. The pawnshop owner, Denny Melling, lay on his back, his head propped on a pillow, IV lines snaking over the headboard of his inclined hospital bed. Bandages and a plastic mask covered his face from upper lip to hairline, as if he’d just come from a costume ball.
He breathed in shallow fits and spurts, sputtering a tiny whimper with each exhale. Pollard bent close to his ear and spoke quietly.
“Mr. Melling. It’s Detective Pollard again.”
“You said I could have…more morphine.”
“Sure. Sure. As soon as we’ve asked you a couple of questions. Okay?”
He hummed an answer and Pollard opened his briefcase and removed the first six-pack photo lineup. “Mr. Melling, Detective Dupree here brought some pictures. The guy you mentioned before might be in here. Now I gotta read this, so listen.” He turned over the first six-pack and breezed through the boilerplate on the back. “Okay, ‘The suspect may or may not be portrayed here. Keep in mind hairstyles, beards, and mustaches can change a person’s appearance.’ Okay, I’m going to uncover your eyes. The light is going to be kind of severe at first. Are you ready?”
The mask had a flap made of surgical tape that covered Melling’s
eyes. Pollard pulled it back and Dupree lost his breath. The right eye was fine, although bloodshot, but beyond it was a mess of bone and skin, unrecognizable as a face. The left eye socket was caved in beneath the bandage and his nose was essentially gone, replaced by bumpy red skin held together with the black thread of fresh sutures. Dupree had read the report—“the victim sustained a gunshot wound to the face…”—but that description seemed so incomplete now as to be inaccurate. The victim no longer had a face.
Melling’s one eye drifted across the faces on the first photo lineup card. “Anything?” Pollard asked.
“No,” Melling said. Pollard flipped to the second page and Melling ran his eye across quickly. “Number four,” he said and his eyelid drifted shut. “That’s him…now can you…get me some morphine? I need to go to sleep.”
Pollard patted his shoulder and let the flap fall back over his eye. He handed the photo lineup to Dupree, who looked at the fourth picture, even though he knew who it was. For weeks he’d been imagining a critical mass of evil, but he never really imagined it could really be one person. But here it was. Their crime spree. Lenny Ryan.
“Can you tell Detective Dupree here what you told me earlier,” Pollard said, “what this guy Lenny wanted from you?”
“I told you,” Melling blurted, as if he were about to cry.
“I know. Just once more and then I’ll have them up your painkiller.”
“He came in the day before…he shot me and…he wanted to know about…” Melling took more shallow breaths. “…kid who sells dope in the park.”
Melling concentrated, trying to come up with the name.
Dupree edged toward the bed. “Burn,” he said.
“Burn. Yeah.” He took a deep breath.
“Why did he want to find Burn?” Pollard asked.
“I don’t know. He wanted to buy some dope. And the kid runs hookers.”
Pollard shot a glance at Dupree. “Did this guy ask about hookers?”
“Well, at first, he was all friendly and he wanted to know where they hung out.”
“And did he mention any particular hookers?”
“Yeah. That’s why he was in my shop. I get a lot of ’em come in. And I guess some hooker he knew pawned a bracelet in my shop a while back.”
“Did he have a pawn ticket?”
“Yeah. He got mad that I wouldn’t sell it back for the pawn price.”
“Do you know how we can find the ticket number?”
“No. I don’t keep very good files.”
Dupree didn’t doubt that. Pawnshop owners kept notoriously bad files to protect the thieves they relied on for merchandise.
“So what happened?”
“He just left. Then…he came back mad. He wanted the bracelet.”
Dupree stepped in. “Did he tell you her name? The hooker?”
“No. He said she was dead.”
Pollard looked up at Dupree again, triumphantly. “Then what happened?”
“When he came back the next day, he was different. He was…he had me get on my knees.” Melling began to cry, his chest heaving in and out.
Pollard patted his shoulder again and pressed the buzzer to bring the nurse. “Okay, Mr. Melling. You get some rest now and we’ll talk later.”
In the hallway Dupree stared at the picture of Lenny Ryan and rubbed his jaw, trying to piece this thing together. A few dots connected but didn’t exactly finish the picture, just added more questions, making the thing
more
incomplete, like Melling’s face. You had to be careful not to imagine too much, to assume that a second eye would follow the first, that these images had to connect, that the Javelin belonged to the guy with the Mohawk who sold Beanie Babies. You had to adjust your vision for the addition of new details, the ignorance of others.
He’d been trying to explain that to Spivey, but now he could see that such subtleties also were lost on Pollard, who stared at him like a dog who’s dragged a dead bird back to his master’s porch.
Dupree handed back the photo lineup. “Let’s think about this.”
“Look at the timeline,” Pollard said. “Ryan got out of prison
two and a half months ago. The first hooker was killed two months ago.”
It was tough sometimes, keeping the pieces from falling together too soon, imagining the connections before you even know what it is you’re connecting. But Dupree was excited. He began moving down the hallway, Pollard following. He should call Spivey, but the thought of explaining this to the young detective made him ill. So he looked to Pollard. “You got some time to help me out on this, Dan?” Dupree knew he didn’t really need to ask. Pollard was on his second divorce. All he had was time. And the task force was a plum assignment.
Pollard nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
They walked out of the hospital together, Dupree thinking about Debbie and about Pollard’s divorce two years earlier. The cops of his generation were almost all divorced, their marriages dissolving over time, in streaks: none for a while and then a whole bunch, as if a storm had passed through. The separation was a lightning strike, catching your attention, surprising you. The divorce was thunder, taking away your breath as you calculated how close it had come to
you
. Pollard’s divorce had been like that. Close. Dan’s wife had been named Natalie, and at one time they were the weekend companions of the young Duprees. Alan remembered one night throwing back drinks at a family-style Italian restaurant and talking about…what?
He couldn’t remember. He remembered Dan and him laughing, their arms around their wives’ chairs, the glasses of wine shuddering with the moment. They were other people then, the tuft of hair on the front of his own head, Pollard not so thick around the middle. But mostly the difference was in the way they were so unafraid. Or unaware. Like Spivey. Dupree could see that night so clearly, the pasta and the wine and the laughter. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had been so funny.
The headlights would be the first thing, and every time they fell on her Caroline was surprised that they generated no heat, just cold light. Sometimes the driver would hit his brakes or back up. But usually the car would cruise by once, the driver thinking himself smart by driving around the block and checking for police cars. But the car always came back, the driver leaning over the passenger seat and smiling, not so different from the smiles of men in taverns and grocery stores and the hallway of detective offices, a sizing-up, an inventory of her respective parts. Out here, cars coursed like blood cells, drivers cruising for sex or drugs or a combination. There was no incidental traffic on East Sprague. No one just passed through.
Caroline paused in front of a bus bench that advertised a buffet-style restaurant. She wore little makeup, had no fur coat or thigh-high leather boots, none of the trappings of the TV hooker. Instead she wore clothes from a secondhand store, the short, tight vinyl skirt and a small button shirt that left her midriff exposed. It was no more revealing than what other young women would be wearing in the clubs that night, just cheaper and tighter. The rest was body
language. Attitude. And movement. The walk. Unattached street hookers didn’t lean against light poles, they moved in a flowing display of parts pointy and curvy, the contrast between convex and concave, ankle to knee to thigh to hip to waist to breast to neck. Everything a man wanted was contained in those contrasts and so she told herself what girls like Jacqueline presumably told themselves every day, that it wasn’t so much about her but her parts; if a john could separate
her
from
her parts
, then so could she. She sauntered along the section of Sprague Avenue that functioned as a market for street hookers, an odd collection of car lots for people with bad credit, Chinese restaurants, pawnshops, dive taverns, hourly-rate motels, bottom-feeder businesses like karate shops and Swedish massage parlors, and a few legitimate daytime businesses. Most prominent of these was Landers’ Cove, a high-end boat and yacht dealership hiding stubbornly behind a high chain-link fence and taking up the entire block on which Caroline now resumed her walking.
Over her shoulder she heard a motor decelerate, and a man in racing leathers pulled up on a newer crotch-rocket motorcycle, his weight thrust forward like someone traveling terribly fast, even though he was pulling to a stop in front of her. She pegged him right away as a guy from Fairchild Air Force Base. They were all over the place and most of them were harmless, but there were always a handful of aggressive little assholes that attracted the attention of police. Nothing serious: statutory rape, simple assault—teenage girls and bar fights. They hired hookers and bought speed, raced around in their little roadsters and plastic motorcycles, which were the only thing of value they would acquire during their years in the service. “What’s goin’ on?” this guy asked, the intensity of his stare very different from the nonchalance of the words.
“Hangin’ out,” she answered. “Waitin’ for a date.” She was careful to straddle the line of entrapment, to not be the one to make the offer.
“Yeah. You been anywhere fun tonight?”
“No. How about you?”
He shrugged. “I was goin’ to the state line. Unless you give me a reason not to.”
This guy was so obvious, his move like a beginner’s serve in tennis. No subtlety or power. Just lob it out there. She smiled. “I suppose I could think of some reasons.”
“I bet you can.”
And then nothing. He just sat on his bike, his helmet on, staring at her. Caroline worried for a moment that she wasn’t attractive enough, or that he wanted a different type. She felt another pair of headlights, saw the car slow down and then move on.
The air force guy stood his ground and she looked at him with growing irritation. “You want somethin’?” she asked finally. “’Cause you’re blockin’ the street.”
This rattled him a little, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. She could see what he was attempting—what they all did, what they were all told to do to keep from being arrested. Get the hooker to initiate the deal. That way, if he was hitting on a cop, his lawyer could convince a judge that it was entrapment.
He looked her up and down. “I don’t know. You look like a cop to me.”
“Yeah? You look like a prick.”
He seemed really hurt. “Hey, there’s no reason to get upset.”
“Get the fuck outta here. I don’t got time for games.”
He took his helmet off and she saw his military haircut and thin mustache. Air force, all right. She was proud that she’d nailed this guy.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I’ve just never seen you out here before.”
“You ever go to the Derby? Up north?” It was a small tavern in her neighborhood, the kind of place this guy would never find himself.
“No.”
“Well, I ain’t welcome there anymore. So for the time being I’m here, and I’m tryin’ to work, so why don’t you move on?”
“Damn! Don’t get all upset. I’m just makin’ sure you ain’t a cop.” Now he was off the bike and Caroline could feel her own adrenaline rise. He was being drawn in, forgetting his caution. “You oughta relax. Maybe we could, you know, go somewhere.”
She nodded at his motorcycle. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere on that thing.”
He looked down the street. “We could get a room.”
“You want a room? Mr. Romance?” This was actually good. The part she hated was climbing in cars, that moment before the other detectives came out from the staging area to cuff the guys, Mirandize them, and begin the process of impounding their cars. If they were using a young patrol officer or a student as the decoy the staging area would be much closer and there would be no climbing in cars, but with Caroline the cavalry could lay back a little farther. And so the car was the most dangerous, the most vulnerable part. And the worst part too, from a cop’s point of view, because if the john tried to use the car for the sex act then it could be confiscated, which meant the nuisance of filling out property forms.
Caroline glanced kitty-corner across the street, to the low-slung motel where Gerraghty and Solaita were watching and listening to the wire she was wearing. “I suppose I could come up with a room.”
“How much?”
Bingo. Felony. Caroline imagined Sergeant Lane, always so anxious as he listened to wires. He would be relaxing now, nodding even. Caroline stepped toward the air force guy. “Depends what you want.”
“I don’t know. Half-and-half?”
Blow job and a lay. This guy was more energetic than he looked. “I might have that in stock. Eighty-five and you pay for the room.”
“Bullshit. Sixty and you pay for the room. I know those guys give you a deal.”
It was true. Hookers usually got a break on hourly rates or could work a trade—a blow job for four hours’ credit, something like that. The guy already had implicated himself, but Caroline knew she had to keep negotiating, even though she was losing interest. “I oughta get fifty for standin’ out here talkin’ to you. How about seventy-five?”
“Too much.”
She acted as if she were disappointed. “Seventy-five and I pay for the room.”
He smiled. “You ain’t a cop, right?”
“Me? I’m chief of police.”
He laughed and she checked for traffic and began crossing the street. He followed her, reaching out to run his hand across her
ass. It was all she could do to not turn and strangle the little shit. This guy probably grabbed asses his whole life. She hated guys like that, bump into you in the hallway, press against you in crowds, get his kicks by rubbing against strangers, like some junior high kid.
He talked as he followed her, a nervous chatter that made him seem even younger. “My name’s Albert,” he said. “I’m from Salem. How about you? Where you from? You know, not that it matters, but it’s surprising how many people, I say, ‘Hey, I’m from Salem,’ and they say, ‘No shit?’ You know, ‘My uncle lives there,’ or something.”
She led him toward the lobby of the motel and through a door into the stairwell. There, sitting in a chair next to the landing, leaning against the ice machine, was Gerraghty. “Howdy, son.”
Albert jumped and grabbed his chest. Caroline glared at Gerraghty.
Howdy?
The worst cops, Caroline thought, were the ones who pretended they were in their own little movie, tossing around catch phrases and snappy comebacks that sounded as if they’d been practiced in front of men’s room mirrors.
“We’re police officers,” she said, turning away from Gerraghty and showing her own badge since he seemed in no hurry to show his. “You’re under arrest for solicitation of a prostitute.”
“No way!” He seemed to be shrinking, getting younger by the second. “I never said I’d pay for sex. I thought this was…you know…”
But Gerraghty was coming across the landing, his hand on the gun in his waistband. “Put your hands behind your head and turn around.”
“Nuh-uh. This is not happening.” He was incredulous. Caroline reached for his arms and he allowed her to close a handcuff gently around one of his wrists.
“You have the right to remain silent…” Gerraghty began.
In the dim light of the stairwell, Albert burst into tears. Caroline dropped his cuffed hand. “Please, don’t!” he cried. “This is my second one. I’m gonna lose my bike and get a dishonorable.” He babbled something about getting loans for college and then brought his hands up to his face, the handcuff clattering.
His crying seemed to amuse Gerraghty, who cracked a huge
grin and rolled his eyes. But Caroline felt bad, and when Solaita came out of the first floor observation room to finish Mirandizing the kid, Caroline eased back out the door.
She stood in front of the motel and let a breeze brush her face, the air cool with impatient spring. She could hear the air force guy still crying while Solaita patiently explained to the kid that an attorney could be provided for him. She took a deep breath and walked through the motel parking lot, back across the street, pausing to look at the kid’s motorcycle. She supposed they’d come pick it up later, after the sting.
She began walking again, away from the motorcycle. “God, I hate this,” she said under her breath, still knowing that all the officers would hear that on the other end of this wire—Gerraghty and Solaita across the street, the sergeant and the other detectives in the warehouse two blocks away. They’d look at each other and raise their eyebrows, just more proof that Mabry wasn’t cut out for this, that she was slipping in some way, that she was too soft. She walked on.
The serious johns parked on the dark side streets perpendicular to Sprague, waiting like fishermen in their boats for women to swim past. Or they trolled Sprague or Pacific behind it, and when another set of headlights fell on the sidewalk, Caroline stepped out into the light, giving the driver a chance to window-shop. But the car didn’t slow down and Caroline was surprised to find that she felt a low-grade rejection. She walked two blocks down Sprague, then back toward the boat dealership as several more cars passed. After ten quiet minutes, Caroline saw Sergeant Lane pull around the corner in his unmarked car. At the same time, Solaita and Gerraghty emerged from the motel across the street, a subdued Albert handcuffed between them. Sergeant Lane parked his car behind the Japanese motorcycle and climbed out.
“We’re done,” the sergeant said, handing over her athletic bag. “I sent the patrol units back with five suspects and your friend here”—he gestured at Albert, who sat slumped on the curb—“makes an even half dozen. I’d say that’s a good night’s work.”
Caroline checked her watch. “But it’s only ten.” The second shift for hookers was only beginning, the time from 10
P.M
. to 3
A.M
., an hour after the bars closed.
“I told ’em we’d give ’em a couple hours. We gave ’em a couple
hours. This isn’t our case. Let Major Crimes do their own grunt work.” He looked over at Solaita and Gerraghty, who had the slumping air force kid between them. “Who wants to ride this Japanese hunk of shit back?”
Gerraghty shrugged, feigning indifference. “I guess I could.”
“You don’t think we should give it another hour?” Caroline asked.
“This is just an item on their checklist, Caroline. They want to be able to say they tried everything. I appreciate your commitment, but are we gonna catch anybody who isn’t an idiot doing this?” To illustrate, he turned to Albert. “The guy they’re lookin’ for ain’t gonna come riding up to some hooker he’s seein’ for the first time.”
“It’s your call.” Caroline felt relieved, even as she wondered if Lane didn’t trust her out here, or was worried that she’d snap again. Or maybe he did think this was a waste of time. It didn’t really matter to her, as long as it meant she was done for the night. Caroline turned her back, reached into her shirt, removed the taped wire from between her breasts, and dropped it in the bag. She pulled a sweatshirt from the bag and pulled it on over her shirt, then slid a pair of sweatpants up to her hips, unzipped the skirt, and dropped it to the pavement. When she looked up they were all watching, the other detectives and the air force kid. The sergeant cleared his throat.
Gerraghty climbed on the bike, turned the key, and it fired up. He gave the other detectives a half smile.
“Front end’s a little loose,” the air force kid said. He looked at Caroline apologetically and shrugged. “I hit a tree.”
Caroline’s car was parked a block off Sprague Avenue, behind the cyclone-fenced boat dealership. The sergeant walked her halfway there, praising her for the john sting and for the way she’d come back after her suspension with enthusiasm and professionalism. On Dr. Ewing’s advice, Caroline was trying not to be cynical, not to hear condescension in the voices of the other detectives, to take the words literally, as if she were encountering them written on a page. But Caroline couldn’t help hearing the subtext of what he was saying. If she were praised for coming back with enthusiasm and professionalism, then those things must have been missing
before. If her work now was the exception, then her screw-ups and emotional explosion from last month were the rule.
Thank you for not being so female this time
.