Deadly Justice (17 page)

An hour and a half later, he had tunneled a path to the first wall, and come up with nothing that cast any light on Hamel’s death.

He patted down the wall, listening for a hollow sound that might suggest a secret room. All he heard was the consistent thud of plaster and wood.

You’re losing it, Kincaid, he thought to himself. This is real life, not a Gothic romance.

Above him, Ben spotted a huge blue swordfish, stuffed and mounted on the wall. A small plaque informed him that Howard Hamel caught the fish off Padre Island on August 12, 1988.

The swordfish triggered something in the back of Ben’s mind. It took him a moment to bring it back:
I love deep sea fishing
, Hamel had said.
If I could
,
I’d spend my whole life doing that and nothing else
.

Could it be? Ben pulled over a rickety chair and raised himself eye level with the swordfish. Maybe it was just his overactive imagination, but the fish seemed to be…smiling at him. Cautiously, Ben put his hand into the fish’s mouth, stretched, and withdrew.

Nothing. Ben jumped off the chair, utterly embarrassed. Who do you think you are, one of the Hardy Boys? he asked himself. First you look for secret passages, then you stick your hand into a swordfish. What did you expect? Golly, maybe we’ll find a treasure map!

Then he recalled the remainder of what Hamel had said:
In fact
,
I’m going on vacation myself in a few days
.
Gonna catch some sun and some fish down at Key West
.
Get away from it all for a few days
.

Ben wondered if perhaps Hamel wanted to get away from a specific something. Or someone. If he had some kind of sensitive information, something someone else wanted intensely, Hamel would probably take it with him.

Ben raced back to the corner of the attic containing Hamel’s fishing gear. He tore through the pile, uprooting rods, reels, nets, and sophisticated electronic gizmos. He found a tackle box and flipped open the lid. Lures, plastic worms, hooks, spare line—
yes
! He thrust his hand down to the bottom of the box and came up with a photograph.

“Mike!”

No response. He ran to the top of the attic ladder.
“Mike!”
he shouted again.

A few moments later, he heard, “What? I was in the middle of searching the half-filled paint cans. I love paint fumes. This had better be good.”

“It is.” As soon as Mike reached the top of the ladder, Ben thrust the photo into his hands. It was a small Polaroid, not very old.

“Do you have any idea who this is?” Mike said, after examining the photo.

“No. But people don’t normally hide photos of naked girls in their tackle boxes. I thought it might be important.”

“Damn right it’s important.” The photograph showed a petite, blond teenage girl, nude except for a broken heart-shaped pendant on a chain around her neck. The expression on her face was difficult to read. But she was not happy. There was someone else in the foreground, facing away from the camera. The second person was impossible to identify; all that was visible was a bare shoulder and part of the back.

Mike flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had handwritten in a messy scrawl:
Kindergarten Club
—
#1
.

“See that strawberry birthmark on her left shoulder?” Mike said. “And two more below her breasts? I recognize the body markings. This girl was the serial killer’s first victim.”

Ben felt a sudden shortness of breath. “But—this photograph looks as if it was taken recently.”

“I agree. There’s very little fading or discoloration.”

“What does it mean?”

Mike shook his head. “It means this case involving Howard Hamel and the Apollo Consortium just became a hell of a lot more important. And deadly.”

T
OMLINSON WALKED THE STROLL
, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket. It was tough—trying to keep up the Mr. Chameleon front, trying to look for someone without making it obvious he was looking for someone. Trying to get close enough to determine whether each bleached-blonde teen prostitute was the one with a scar across the bridge of her nose. Without getting beat up.

He moved briskly down the street, past the massage parlors and steam baths, the sex shops, and the lavender movie theatres. He approached two ladies occupying the corner of Eleventh and Cincinnati. The one closest to him was a big-boned black woman wearing a halter vest and a fake fur coat. The other woman was standing in the shadows; he couldn’t see her clearly.

“Wanna date?” the black woman asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Tomlinson said. “But not with you, I’m afraid.”

“Wassa matter with me, chump?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Do I scare you? Make you wanna run home to your mama?”

“No…I’m just looking for someone in particular.”

“I’ll bet.” She turned to her companion. “Gump with a tall bank.”

Translation: homosexual with a lot of money. Tomlinson grinned. Wrong on both counts.

The companion stepped into the light of the street lamp. She had dark hair and was in her mid-thirties, probably. It was hard to be certain; they aged quickly on the streets. But she wasn’t the one he was looking for.

“You ladies wouldn’t know a girl named Trixie, would you? I’m told she works The Stroll, too.”

“Why do you ask?” the black woman said. “Are you her daddy?”

“No. Just an interested party.”

“I figures. That Trixie, she’s more your speed. Tiny and unthreatening. And white.”

“We have a prior relationship,” Tomlinson explained, stretching the truth a bit.

“A repeat customer, huh? Well, ain’t that peachy?” She shared a laugh with her dark-haired friend. “Sugar, you just hustle on down three corners thataway. You’ll find your dream girl. If she ain’t busy at the moment. She’ll be with Buddy, most likely. Come to think of it, you may like Buddy better than you do Trixie.” They had another big laugh.

Tomlinson thanked them and headed in the direction the woman had pointed. He couldn’t work up much irritation, much less anger, toward his informants. It wasn’t their fault, this bizarre life they led. He knew from the days when he walked this beat regularly that prostitutes were almost always hardcore sexual abuse victims. And if they weren’t when they came to the oldest profession, they certainly would be before they left. Talk about life on the edge. Most had daily contact with sex and needles, one of the most likely ways to contract AIDS, the twentieth-century plague.

It hurt worst when he saw the teenagers, the girls who for whatever reasons, usually compelling ones, had run away from home and joined the street culture. When he had walked this beat, he’d made a concerted effort to get as many of them off and out as possible. The hell with busting them—he just tried to get them into a life-style that wouldn’t kill them before they were old enough to drive. He had some successes, too, but far more failures. It was a matter of timing. If he could catch them early on, say, during their first year, there was a chance he could get them off the streets, relocate them, find them another job. Over a year—forget it. They were here for life.

It was the newfound freedom that was their biggest enemy. The girls split from their homes and suddenly they could do anything they wanted. They could stay out all night, they could go to rock concerts, they could get dope without any trouble. Ts and Blues all night long. A dream come true, right? Until they were trapped. Until the pimp took control of their life, and the drugs took control of their life, and the booze took control of their life. Soon everyone and everything had control of their life. Except them.

A few blocks down the street, Tomlinson found her. She fit the description the man in the tattoo shop had given perfectly. She was extremely thin; something had been wedged in her bra to suggest a fullness she did not have. As he approached, he could see that her hair was not naturally blond, and he could see the adolescent acne that marked her skin. As if to confirm the ID, a pool of pennies lay scattered around her feet.

She was standing next to an older man with thinning reddish hair. The man wore tight leather leggings; he was obviously a male prostitute.

Tomlinson approached the girl casually. “Are you Trixie?”

She looked back at him, openly suspicious. “Who wants to know?”

He silently noted the small scar across the bridge of her nose. “I do. I’ve been looking for you for three days.”

“Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you did. Why would you assume—”

“Because you’re with the Fury, that’s why.”

Tomlinson was crestfallen; he knew the street slang for vice cops. Strike two for Mr. Chameleon. “Did someone recognize me?”

“Nah. It was just obvious. Wasn’t it, Buddy?” The man in the leather leggings nodded his head.

“I thought I was blending in.”

“Well, next time you want to blend in, leave the fancy blue jeans at home. They’re way too new, not to mention too expensive, for anyone around here. And while you’re at it, forget the penny loafers, too.”

“I thought I had this down pat.”

“That’s the main problem. You’re trying too hard. And you’re looking for something specific, not just any port in the storm, like everyone else around here.”

Tomlinson had to grin. Mr. Chameleon had been undone by Miss Marple in a halter top. “My name’s Tomlinson. I understand you were a close friend of Suzie’s.”

“Do you know where she is?” Trixie said anxiously, stumbling awkwardly in her high heels. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere.”

“I…may know where she is,” Tomlinson said. “Can we talk privately?” After some initial hesitation, Trixie followed him to the steps of a nearby building. Tomlinson noticed that Buddy kept a close eye on them.

“I called the county jail,” Trixie said, “but they told me they didn’t have anyone by her description. I called the hospitals, too, but no luck. She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“That depends.” Tomlinson saw that he was attracting attention from some nasty-looking men on the opposite side of the street. Chitchat was frowned upon; you were supposed to strike a deal and get off the street. “Do you know whether Suzie had a tattoo?”

“Of course I do. I was with her when she got it. I was against the whole idea. Suzie’s only been on the streets about six months. I’ve been sort of her—well, I dunno, sort of her mother, I guess. I think tattoos are gross, but she’d met this guy, and he was a butterfly freak, and she thought—”

“The tattoo was a butterfly?”

“Oh, yeah. With lots of roses and stuff all over it. This John told her he loved her and he was coming back for her, and she believed him. When he didn’t come back, she was all torn up. And she was stuck with the tattoo.”

“Can you tell me…what part of the body she had tattooed?”

“What are you, some kind of tattoo freak?”

“No…I’m just trying to make a positive ID.”

Trixie’s face turned ashen. “Oh, my God. She’s not… She isn’t—”

“I’m not sure.”

Trixie’s lips did not move for a long time, as if she could not bring herself to speak the words that might clinch the identification. “It was on her boob. This one, I think.” She touched her left side.

Tomlinson reached out to her. “I’m sorry….

“Oh…
no
!” Trixie bit down on her fist. “Oh, God! I should have been there.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is! I promised her! I promised I’d take care of her! I promised all of them!”

“All of them?”

“Oh, my God.” She kept repeating the words, over and over. “First it was Angel. Then Suzie and Barbara. They say Bobbie Rae disappeared a few nights ago. That means I’m the last one.”

Tomlinson was puzzled. “The last—what?”

“Don’t you see? This can’t be just a coincidence. One, even two of them—maybe. But not all. Not every one.”

Tomlinson grabbed her by the shoulders. “Trixie, please calm down. You’re not making any sense. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

She swallowed deep gulps of air. Her face seemed to go a million ways at once. “They’re killing us all.”

“Us all? Who? What do you have in common?”

She looked at him blankly. “The Kindergarten Club.”

A sudden shout erupted from an open window in the building across the street. Tomlinson couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was distinctly angry.

“Damn,” Trixie muttered. “I’m in trouble now.”

“What?” Tomlinson asked. “Who is that man?”

“That’s my…boss.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s pissed because I’ve been standing here talking to a potential John for ten minutes, and we’re still out on the street talking. As far as he’s concerned, that’s long enough to turn the trick and be back on the street waiting for the next one. Look, you need to get out of here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to.”

“Trixie, if you’re right, and someone is systematically killing people, and you’re the only one left, you’re in tremendous danger.”

“If Sonny gets mad at me, he’ll beat the shit out of me. Which is worse?” The tough facade melted away; a sad, pleading tone permeated her voice. “Please leave.”

“I could arrest you.”

“Sonny would have me out in two hours. And then he’d really beat the shit out of me.”

“Fine. Then I’ll, uh, hire you. Let’s go upstairs.”

“We charge thirty dollars, minimum. That’s for just the basic service. Have you got that much on you?”

Tomlinson checked his wallet, embarrassed. “No.”

“Then Sonny would beat the shit out of you.”

Tomlinson stepped back and glared at the angry man across the street. Frustration seethed from his pores. “Trixie, I have to talk to you.”

“Then come back tomorrow, when I have some time off. I have to work till morning, then I crash till the sun sets. Meet me at nine.”

“Where?”

She pointed to a Denny’s across the street. “There. We’ll eat, we’ll talk.” She winked. “You’ll buy.”

Tomlinson bit down on his lip. He didn’t like this arrangement at all, but it seemed to be the only solution. “Promise you’ll be there?”