Deadly Justice Page 21

  “You find something logical in the mutilation of four helpless prostitutes?”

  “That’s just it. Why the mutilation? It doesn’t seem to reflect gender hatred, or cannibalistic tendencies, or sexual obsessions, or any of the other traits you’ll find in the FBI profiles. And why no threats? Why no sexual assaults? Why no taunting letters to the police? It’s as if the killer is duplicating the eccentricities of a serial, killer, but lacks the core madness of a true psychotic.”

  “If that’s true, Mike, then we’re looking for someone with—God forbid—a logical reason for committing these murders.”

  Mike pursed his lips. “I’m aware of that. What’s more, I think Tomlinson was convinced of it.”

  “Well, pardon me if I’m not convinced. Anyone who would commit crimes like this is a nutcase in my book, per se. Surely you’ll catch him soon if you continue this all-force full-court press.”

  “I’d like to tell you we’re getting closer, Ben, but I’d be lying. This case is the living embodiment of the third law of thermodynamics: all things tend toward chaos. The harder we look, the less we find. The longer it takes, the more it gets away from us.”

  “Well, thanks for the info, Mike. Let me know if you learn anything about the people on the Kindergarten list. I’ll be sure to call tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother,” Blackwell said. “I’ll be back here the second your week is up. The press are hungry for a suspect. And I’m going to give them one.”

  “One way or another, huh?”

  Blackwell stepped forward and stood so close that Ben could feel his hot unpleasant breath on his face. “That’s exactly right, Kincaid. One way or another.”

  38

  A FEW MINUTES AFTER Mike and Chief Blackwell left, Christina breezed into Ben’s office and seized her favorite chair. “Janice said you were looking for me.”

  Ben bit his knuckle pensively. “Christina, I need your help.”

  “Okay. Don’t look so distressed. Have I ever denied you anything?”

  “There’s always a first time. I want to mount an undercover operation. Just you and me. Tonight.”

  “Tonight? That’s not much advance warning. What if I have plans? What if I have a big date?”

  “Then you need to cancel it. This can’t wait.”

  “Why not?”

  Ben tugged at his collar. “I just had a visit from Chief Blackwell.”

  “That blowhard? Let him arrest you. He’ll never make it stick.”

  “Oh? The police are experts at making charges stick, especially when they’re desperate, as you of all people should know. Besides, the arrest alone would kill my professional reputation, and if I’m behind bars how am I ever going to find out who killed Howard Hamel?”

  “Okay, okay. How much time do you have?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours.”

  She gulped. “Tonight it is. Give me the précis.”

  Ben recounted the new information that Mike had provided about Sergeant Tomlinson’s private investigation. “The knowledge that the victims are all teen prostitutes is the wedge we need to crack this case wide open. We’ve been pumping away at our suspects here in the office and coming up empty. Now I think we need to come at it from the other end—from the victims’ side of the mystery. Maybe we’ll uncover something that will tie this whole mess together.”

  “Well…it’s worth a try. Especially since you’re desperate. So what do you want me to do?”

  Ben hemmed a bit and traced the pleat in his slacks. “Like I said before…I want you to go undercover.”

  “Where?”

  “Eleventh and Cincinnati. Walking the streets.”

  Christina drew herself up in the chair. “Now wait a minute, Ben. There’s no chance in—”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “There must be an alternative.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “I absolutely, positively refuse.”

  “Why? I’ve gone along with your schemes in the past.”

  “Never anything like this. Forget it, Ben. This is not going to happen.”

  “Please, Christina. It’s important.”

  “Ben, you’ve been watching too many Charlie’s Angels reruns. I am not going to masquerade as a prostitute.”

  Ben frowned. “A prostitute? No, you misunderstand. I don’t want you to masquerade as a prostitute. I want you to masquerade as a customer.”

  Christina strolled leisurely down Eleventh Street, trying not to look back over her shoulder. Ben had promised to follow in his car at a discreet distance, but you could never be sure about Ben. Sometimes he got lost walking from his kitchen to the living room. Or he might step up on a curb and get vertigo.

  She hated these heels that he had insisted she wear. She’d only bought them at the resale shop as a joke; they tilted her feet up at ninety degree angles. Ben had turned her clothes closet upside down looking for “suitably sleazy clothes,” and complained that there were too many possibilities to choose from. The billowy “bimbo top” he’d chosen, along with the hip-hugging miniskirt, certainly filled the bill. He’d even accessorized it for her: hoop chain belt, red glitter purse, and long dangling earrings.

  Truth be told, the feather boa was her own idea, but she still wasn’t fond of the general premise. Why did they have to go the cheap and tawdry route? Why not a Utica Square society matron on the make—fur coats and long glittery evening gowns? Oh, well—she probably couldn’t afford the costuming.

  She’d been on the street for over an hour, chatting up every streetwalker, male or female, she’d met. Ben had been right about one thing; they seemed more willing to talk since Christina looked like she belonged there. They seemed perfectly relaxed around someone who they perceived as an insider looking for some action. Talk they did, but they had precious little of value to say. No one admitted to knowing a girl named Trixie, and there were some who wouldn’t discuss the matter at all. She’d flashed some cash, hoping to attract some cooperation, but ended up only attracting an acne-pocked weasel who wanted to know if she “wanted some grass to go with her ass.”

  A very deep debt was accumulating on Ben Kincaid’s ledger, and she planned to make damn sure she collected.

  Three women were huddled around a lamppost on Detroit, displaying their wares. Christina knew that society was usually the ultimate cause of poverty, addiction, and prostitution. It was wrong to belittle women who were forced to make these difficult choices. Nonetheless, as she approached the street corner, it was difficult to keep the word floozies out of her mind.

  Christina strode in for a closer look. All three appeared too old to be teenagers. Come to think of it, she had seen precious few teenagers all night. Maybe one happy result of this horrible tragedy would be that teenagers finally figured out that this was a dangerous profession.

  A large black woman wearing an uncommon amount of lipstick addressed Christina in a tone far from friendly. “What d’you think you’re doin’, honey?”

  “I’m looking for…someone.”

  “Aren’t we all?” The woman laughed, a coarse, heavy braying. “Run along, Betty Sue. This corner’s taken.”

  “These here blocks belong to Sonny,” another woman said. “He don’t care much for competition.”

  “Especially dressed like her,” the third commented. “Really brings down the neighborhood.”

  “I do like this wrap, though,” the black woman said. She began to tug Christina’s boa off her neck. “I like this a lot.”

  Christina clamped down on the boa. “What’ll you give me for it?”

  The woman smiled. “How ’bout I just ask Sonny not to carve you into little pieces?”

  Christina’s throat felt very dry. She peered across the street. Was it just her imagination, or did she feel Sonny’s eyes bearing down on her?

  “Run along now, sugar. We don’t need another working girl around here.”

  “But I’m not—” Christina scanned her attire. “Ben assured m
e that I did not look like a—a—”

  “Honey, why else would you be here?”

  “Well…” Christina felt her face beginning to turn crimson. “Maybe I’m shopping.”

  “Oh, honey, we don’t do none of that weird stuff. Maybe up on Fifteenth.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in other women.”

  “Then you’s on the wrong block.” The tall woman pointed down the street.

  “But I am trying to find a particular young woman,” Christina insisted. “Someone named Trixie.”

  The three women all exchanged a quiet glance. “You ain’t the first.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No. We don’t know nothing.”

  “Don’t try to con another woman. I saw the way you all looked at one another. You must know something.”

  “Nope. Never heard of her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  “No way I could change your mind?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’ll let you have my boa.”

  The woman’s chin rose; her eyes fell upon the long white fluff. A moment later, she placed her hand on the boa and slowly pulled it away from Christina’s neck.

  “I still can’t tell you nothing,” the woman said. But Christina noticed that she was staring across the street and down a block. “Follow the pennies.”

  “What does—”

  “That’s all I know. Now git!” Christina took the hint and left. Across the street and one block down, she found two men in their early thirties dressed in tight jeans and fringed jackets. Obviously hooking. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  The man closer to her cocked an eyebrow. “Wanna date?”

  Christina tried not to barf. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  The man stepped closer and placed his hand on her waist. “You’ve come to the right place, baby. Thirty dollars and you’ll be in paradise.”

  Christina’s teeth set on edge, but she kept smiling. “Actually, I had something specific in mind.”

  He ran his hand through her hair. “I’m flexible.”

  She laughed nervously, “No, you misunderstand. I’m looking for a particular person.”

  He pressed his legs and groin against her. “I’ll make you forget him. I’ll make you forget everyone you’ve ever known.”

  “Well, how nice.” Christina cleared her throat and straightened her skirt. “Seriously, though—”

  “You’ll feel ecstasy like you’ve never felt before. Your body will tremble; your thighs will ache. You’ll have a hurt that only I can fix.” He leered at her. “And the wonderful thing is, I’ll be right here the next time you need me.”

  “Boy, that’s…really…some kind of deal.” Christina was uncommonly warm, and the fact that his breath was smacking her in the face didn’t help any. “But I’m actually looking for a woman. Someone who works here, or used to. Her name is Trixie.”

  The man disentangled himself and backed away, a snarl on his lips. “Shit! Is everyone in town looking for that stupid bitch?”

  “You know her?”

  “You’re talking to the wrong person.” He gestured toward his companion. “You should—”

  The other man glared at him, silencing him with a look.

  “I should what?” Christina faced the other man. “I should ask you? Do you know where Trixie is?”

  The second man practically spit at the first. He shoved him aside roughly.

  “Hey, Buddy, watch it. I didn’t say nothing.”

  “You said too much, you stupid-assed whore.” Buddy stepped into the streetlights and ran a hand through his thinning red hair. “I don’t know anything about this…Trixie.” His voice was thin and nervous. “No one does. You might as well go home.”

  Christina gave him a quick once over. Buddy had a pasty white complexion and a pudgy figure; he lacked the harshness of most of those she had spoken to tonight. This tough guy routine did not appear to come naturally to him.

  “Why is Trixie hiding?” Christina asked. “Why are you protecting her?”

  “The street people got to look out for one another. No one else will.”

  “The police are trying to help her.”

  “Like hell. The Fury almost got her killed. Twice. Least that’s what I heard,” he added hastily. “They can’t help her any more than they helped the first four. They couldn’t care less about us. They’ve been screwing around, asking stupid questions, doin’ strip searches and dicky checks on everyone they find. Sick bastards. That’s why all the sickos and perverts come here to do their hurting and killing. No one cares. We’re the invisible people.”

  “Could I at least get a message to Trixie?” Christina asked. “It’s very important that I reach her.”

  “Wouldn’t know how. I told you—I don’t know where she is. In fact, I don’t know who you’re talking about; Now get off our corner.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Not here it ain’t. Here, everything costs.” He glanced across the street. Two flamboyantly dressed men were leaning out the open window of a brick building. Something glistened in one of their hands. Something that bore an unsettling resemblance to a knife.

  “Time for you to shove off, lady.”

  “Yeah, fine.” Christina edged away, careful not to turn her back to them or the men in the window. She hurried back the way she had come, watching for Ben’s Honda. She tried to remain rational, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was closing in on her, lurking over her shoulder, watching her every move.

  She saw a dented front grill that positively identified the car as Ben’s and crossed toward it. Thank God. She couldn’t get off this street fast enough.

  39

  “STAY DOWN!” BEN WHISPERED harshly. “He might recognize you.”

  “I’m down, I’m down,” Christina muttered. She was crouching in the floor of Ben’s car. “How long do you think I can stay scrunched up here?”

  “As long as it takes. No one ever said a stakeout would be comfortable.”

  “Just as well. I’d sue for breach of warranty.” She raised her head slightly. “How much longer are we going to wait?”

  “Not long. He’s starting to move.” Ben eased the transmission into drive. “Come on, Buddy. Take us home.”

  Ben watched the pudgy man in the fringe jacket cross the street and walk north on Cincinnati. He was moving at a brisk pace, without hesitation.

  Ben followed as far behind as possible, lights off. He took a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment and focused on Buddy. He stayed just close enough to keep his quarry in binocular range.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” Christina whispered. She wasn’t sure why she was whispering; it just seemed appropriate somehow.

  “Of course I do. I’ve been on stakeouts before. And Mike once showed me how to tail a suspect in a car.”

  “Mike did?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Just doesn’t sound like Mike. I’d expect him to grab the suspect, snap on the cuffs, and haul out the rubber hoses.”

  Ben smiled. “Mike does have his subtler side.”

  “Very subtle. In fact, almost invisible.”

  Ben watched Buddy hesitate on the corner of Eighth Street. Buddy seemed to be waiting for something. He checked his watch, men tapped his foot nervously. He glanced back over his shoulder, then up and down the street. Eventually, he continued walking north.

  “Good thing you were out of sight,” Ben commented.

  “What was he looking for?”

  “Beats me. He acted as if he thought someone might be following him. And of course, he was right.”

  “He acted nervous the entire time we talked,” Christina said. “As if someone might be lurking just around the corner. He didn’t even want to say Trixie’s name aloud. It was as if the evocation of her name might put her in danger.”

  �
��Perhaps it might,” Ben said. He let his car inch forward, maintaining a constant distance between himself and Buddy. “Are you sure he knows where she is?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Christina replied. “But he did act strange when Trixie’s name came up. Defensive—in fact, almost protective. His friend suggested that Buddy knew something about where she was. And of course, the lady of the evening now modeling my feather boa also indicated that Buddy was the key to finding Trixie.”

  “Let’s hope she’s right. I’m not sure we could repossess your boa.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to.”

  Ben continued his surveillance for about ten minutes. Buddy turned left, walked about five more minutes, then took another left.

  “I think this is it,” Ben said.

  Buddy approached a small two-story house with a white brick exterior. It was not in the best condition, but that lent it a certain charm, Ben thought. It looked as if it belonged in this neighborhood, but in a different time.

  There were no lights on inside the house. Buddy fumbled for his keys a moment or two, then opened the door.

  As soon as he was inside, Christina sat upright. “Elegant pied-à-terre. You think that’s where he lives?”

  Ben shrugged. “He seems to have his own keys.”

  “I thought all the prostitutes lived on The Stroll. Under their pimp’s thumbnail.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s different for guys. At any rate, he appears to be here for a reason.”

  “Great. Now what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  And wait they did. They followed the trail of lights that showed Buddy moving into a small room on the ground floor (bathroom, Ben guessed), then up the stairs. Lights came on in a larger room, and Ben saw Buddy’s silhouette pass across the windows.

  “Bingo,” Ben muttered under his breath.

  “What? What’s going on?”

  Ben grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the upstairs window. “There’s a second silhouette in there. He’s not alone.”

  “Can you tell who it is?”

  “Not without X-ray vision. But there is definitely a second person in there—a smallish person, on the short side.”