Only Child (28 page)

• • •

I
didn't even try.
One of the channels had a story about this guy who killed his girlfriend and stuffed her into a trunk in his apartment. He was a well-connected rich boy, so they gave him bail. He jumped bond and made it out of the country. Ended up living in France. Living
good,
too. For years, the French wouldn't extradite him, because he was facing the death penalty here, which went against their high moral principles. France is famous for protecting people from oppression. Ask Roman Polanski.
I heard the echo of Terry's school conversation in my head.
Movies are amazing.
And Cyn.
Power power power.

• • •

"N
ot to be conceited, but I am, like,
so
cute, all my friends tell me I could be a model, except I'm not tall," Michelle girl-gushed into the phone. "Is it, like, for real that you have a studio and everything?"
 . . .
"Oh,
wow
! I know where that is. That would be perfect. Only, it has to be after school, all right? Like right around this time? Not at—"
 . . .
"Do you pay, like, by the hour?"
 . . .
"Oooh! Really? How many hours could I—?"
 . . .
"A gif? You want me to send you a . . . Oh, you mean, like, to see if I . . ."
 . . .
"Couldn't I just . . . ?"
 . . .
"Oh, okay. But I don't have any really
good
pictures of myself. I mean, that's what I wanted
you
to . . ."
 . . .
"I'll do it tonight! Just give me your addy. . . ."
 . . .
"Thanks! Buh-bye!"

• • •

"Y
ou did it perfect, honey," I told Michelle.
"Swear to God, I closed my eyes, I thought you were seventeen," Rejji praised her.
"But it's no good, right?" Cyn said, catching my eye.
"I don't think so, Cyn. You see what he's doing, scamming girls into sending him pictures of themselves over the Inter-net, so they can 'audition' to be 'models' for him. He probably does have a little studio set up in his house. Maybe even actually pays a girl, every once in a while. It's sleazy, but probably not even a crime. He didn't ask you for nude shots, did he, Michelle?"
"No, baby. I gave it back to you, word-for-word. He wasn't even
suggesting
anything. But, you know,
some
of those stupid girls, they're going to go ahead and . . ."
"Sure," I agreed, guessing their real reason was closer to the need-greed border than it was to stupidity.
"Couldn't you at least go and talk to him?" Cyn said.
"There's one thing that would qualify him," I said to them all. "But I have to go back to the City and ask."

• • •

I
looked a question at Gateman as I came through the door. He shook his head. As good as the white-dragon tapestry in Mama's window.
I went up to my place. My empty place.

• • •

I
t only took me a few minutes at the keyboard to get the answer. The Mole had scanned all of Wolfe's paper on Vonni's case into the hard drive of an IBM laptop, and Terry had shown me how to search the documents.
I cross-checked the info from Cyn— name, address, phone number. Nothing. Then I tried some keywords for the kind of thing he liked to do. Blank.
The man who scammed teenage girls into cyber-sending him naughty-cheerleader pictures had never been interviewed by the cops.

• • •

L
ate that night, alone in my place, I wanted the comfort of the blues. I cued up some Roy Buchanan, drifted along with "Drowning on Dry Land." Rode all the way up to Chicago with Charlie Musselwhite, a bluesman who had made that same trip. Spent some time there with native son Paul Butterfield, then went back down to Texas for some of Delbert's honkytonk.
Finally, I put some Henske on, closed my eyes, got myself lost in Magic Judy's "Dark Angel." When I got to the end of that road, I picked up the cellular and dialed Gem's number.
It rang twice. Then came the series of tones that were a signal to leave a message.
I never could think of one to leave. But I let her hear the music for a few seconds, so she'd know it was me.

• • •

I
looked out my window. Down into the dark. The deep dark. The Zero. But it didn't pull at me like it had once. The Zero is everywhere. Always waiting. If I had wanted to . . . just not be anymore, I wouldn't have come home to do it.

• • •

"W
hat do you want?" He was a middle-aged white male, nothing remarkable, standing in the doorway of a modest Cape Cod. Nine-fifteen on a Thursday evening; just past dark.
"Allow me to introduce myself, sir," I said. "My name is Mr. White. And this," I said, nodding toward Clarence, "is my associate, Mr. Black."
"I'm not buying—"
"And we're not selling, sir. May we come in?"
"What is—?" he said. But by then we were all inside.
"Thank you, sir," I said. "This won't take a minute. Is there a place where we could sit down?"
"I . . ." A guy who'd made a career out of suggesting— hinting, implying, making sure you got the message, without actually saying anything himself. He'd read Clarence's shoulder holster like a billboard. His eyes never left us as he walked over to a living room dominated by a blank-faced projection TV set.
"All we want is for you to take a look at this photograph," I said, sitting down.
His mud-brown eyes came alive when I said "photograph," but I didn't know him well enough to guess whether it was fear or excitement.
I handed him Vonni's picture. He took it, tentatively at first, then visibly relaxed as he examined it.
"Have you ever seen her?" I asked him, already knowing the answer.
"No," he said— indignant, now that he was innocent. "What's this all about?"
"We're trying to locate anyone who might have been in contact with her," I said.
"Why? Is she a runaway or something?"
"She's dead, sir."
"Oh. I didn't . . . I mean, what happened?"
"It was in all the papers," I told him. "About a year ago. That's Vonni Greene."
"That's her? I mean, I know what you're talking about now. I think I did see a picture . . . in the papers, right . . . but this doesn't look like that one, I don't think. You guys, you're not cops, are you?"
"No, Mr. Trebin, we're not the police. That's what interested us. When the police were investigating the case, they talked to everyone who might have been involved in this girl's life. Anyone who might have come into contact with her in any way at all. And it seems like they never talked to you."
"That's because I never—"
"That's because they didn't have your name," I cut him off. "But we can fix that, if you'd like."
"I . . . I don't care," he said, falling way short of defiant. "I told you, I've never even seen—"
Clarence caught my eye, nodded. But we kept him talking for another few minutes, just to make sure.

• • •

"I
don't like ghosting those country cribs," the Prof said, back at the house. "People out in the sticks, they don't mind their own business the way city folks do."
"How long did it take you?" I asked.
"To get in? It was a cheesebox, Schoolboy. Maybe ten seconds. We didn't have a floor plan, but I could hear you all talking, so I knew where I had to keep to."
"Where was it?"
"Basement, bro. Just like we'd figured."
"And he had a computer?"
"Yeah. I don't know nothing about the damn things, but he sure had him a big-ass screen for it. Like you said, I didn't touch it."
"Find anything else?"
"Pictures, bro. Motherfucker had
hundreds
of them, minimum. Tacked up all over the place."
"And they were all—"
"What Cyn said, honeyboy. Like a yearbook from a girls' school, only in color. Nothing he's ever gonna go to jail for. One thing, though . . ."
"What?" Rejji asked.
"No blacks, no Asians, no Latinas— hell, no fucking
Indians
. Not one. For this boy, all-white was all right."
"That clinches it," I said. "He's not the one."

• • •

"T
hese two are a prize pair of dirtbags," Wolfe said, handing over a couple of mug shots.
They looked identical, right down to where their bullet heads just inched past the "74" on the vertical measuring bar. Nice specimens. Square-jawed, heavy cheekbones, not a lot of nose or forehead. Prominent trapezius ridges sloped from their thick necks to their wide shoulders. They even had the same expressions on their faces— barely blunted aggression, just a few hundred RPM short of redline.
"What did they go down for?" I asked her.
"They didn't," she said. "These are from the arrest. Never went to trial."
"What were they charged with?"
"This time? Rape. Before that, Assault Two, Assault Three. That's kind of their specialty."
"They
never
went to trial? On any of all that?"
"They pled out to YO on some of them."
"
Some
of them?" Youthful Offender status is usually a one-time present from the criminal-justice system.
"That's right. Probation. And sealing."
"No expungement?"
"They
did
get expungement, on the ones that were dismissed."
"And this one, for rape, it was dismissed?"
"That one, too."
"But don't the cops have to destroy the photos and prints when the court—?"
"Please!" she said scornfully.
"Sorry. You have anything else?"
"Oh, there's a
lot
. The boys were impressive athletes in high school. Brett was a wrestler; Bryce played lacrosse. Despite marginal transcripts, they each did
very
well on the SATs. They went to school upstate, on full scholarships."
"And . . . ?"
"On their records, it says they withdrew. Truth, they were kicked out."
"You know what for?"
"They're rapists," she said, cold and flat. "But even with all those muscles, they'd still rather use drugs."
"Date-rape drugs?"
"Oh yes. More than once, at that same school. Nothing ever proven. What they
could
prove was steroids. Using and selling."
"That was . . . back in '97. They get popped any since then?"
"Sure. They're hired muscle; it goes with the job description. But the victims not pressing charges, that's one of the job
benefits
. So getting busted, it's only a minor inconvenience. Never lasts long."
"Are they mobbed up?"
"Not that I could see. And they don't seem to have any ambition to go into business for themselves. They may be twins, but they're not exactly the Krays."
"You have an address?" I said, getting to it.
"All the paper we could find in New York directs to the same place, out on the Island. But that's their parents' house— they haven't lived there for years."
"Damn."
"They're in Jersey now, I'm pretty sure."
"How come?"
"Because I know where they work," Wolfe said, handing me a piece of paper.

• • •

"I
s it a mob joint?"
"You mean, does a family own it?" Giovanni replied. "I don't know; I can find out. But that's territory, down there. I mean, it's
mapped
territory. So a family man may own it, or may have a piece of it. Or not. But no matter what, I promise you this much: to operate a strip joint anywhere within a hundred miles of Trenton, they're paying tolls."
"I don't want to step on anyone's toes."
"I can handle it."
"See, that's the thing," I told him. "It
can't
be handled in front. If I work this right, there's no reason for anyone to know I've even been there. It only has to be handled if the wheels come off. That happens, I just want to be sure these guys aren't able to call in any heavy artillery."
"Give me a couple of days," he said.

• • •

"T
hey're not
with
this Vision guy," I said. "No reason why they wouldn't talk to me, especially for some cash."
"Why not ask boss?" Mama said.
"I'm not . . ."
"Ask
their
boss. For permission. Boss say, You talk," she said, pointing her finger at me, "they talk, right?"
"You're right, Mama. Only the person who'd have to ask their boss, Giovanni, he can't come into this."
"Ah."
"I don't feature those 'roid boys, bro," the Prof said. "Motherfuckers would have to
mainline
Valium to get calm enough to reason with."
"I'm still saying, why not?" I insisted. "They're not master criminals. Or even angle-players. Just muscle-for-hire. I'm not interested in anything
they
did. All I want is where to find the guy who makes the tapes."
"It sounds so reasonable, mahn," Clarence said. "But my father's wisdom is a good guide. If they do not . . . accept you, you must be prepared."
"Take Max," Mama said, settling it.