Майкл Коннелли - Dark Sacred Night

“Who?”

“Wilson Gayley.”

Pascal started to laugh and then shook his head.

“Are you fucking with me?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Pascal, we’re not fucking with you,” Ballard said.

“Wilson Gayley is dangerous? What did he do? Run a stop sign? Flip off a nun?”

“We can’t share the details of the case we’re working. It’s a confidential investigation and anything you tell us will be confidential as well. Do you know where he is at the moment?”

“What? No. I haven’t seen that guy in a couple years, at least. Somebody had a party for him when he got out of prison, and I saw him there. But that was like three years ago.”

“So you have no idea where he is these days?”

“I have an idea where he isn’t and that’s in L.A. I mean, if he was here, I would have seen him around, you know?”

Pascal shoved his hands into the front pocket of the hoodie. Ballard realized he could hide his hands even without a table.

“How did you know Wilson Gayley in the first place?” Bosch asked.

Pascal shrugged like he was not sure how to answer.

“He was making street movies,” he said. “Shorts. He had a name for them. It was like a series. I think it was called Hollywood Whores or something like that. He hired me in a room like this after seeing my package, you know? And then we went driving around, and he’d pay street girls to get in and fuck me while he filmed it. That was how I got my start in the business, you know?”

Ballard and Bosch stared at him for a long moment before Ballard continued the questioning.

“When was this?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Pascal said. “Ten years ago. Thereabouts.”

“What kind of vehicle did you use?” Bosch asked.

“Vehicle? It was a van,” Pascal said. “It was an old VW like they had on that show Lost. People always made that connection. Two-tone. White on the top, blue on the bottom.”

“And the women? Who talked them into getting in the van?” Ballard asked.

“That was him mostly,” Pascal said. “He had a silver tongue. He used to say he could sell matches to the devil. But there was no shortage of women who would get in. Most of them were pros, anyway.”

“Prostitutes,” Ballard said.

“That’s right,” Pascal said.

“Were some of them runaways?” Ballard asked.

“I suppose so,” Pascal said. “We didn’t really ask a bunch of questions, you know? If they got in the van, they got paid, and they knew what they had to do.”

“Underage girls?” Ballard tried.

“Uh... no,” Pascal said. “That would be illegal.”

“It’s all right,” Ballard said. “Ten years ago — the statute of limitations has passed. You can tell us.”

Ballard’s statement about the statute of limitations wasn’t exactly true but it didn’t matter. Pascal wasn’t going there.

“No, nobody underage,” he said. “I mean, we checked IDs but somebody here and there could’ve had a phony, you know what I’m saying? Not our fault if they were lying.”

“How often did you do this?” Bosch asked.

“I don’t know,” Pascal said. “A couple times a month. He’d call me up when he needed me. But he was going out with different guys on different nights. To have variety in the product, you know?”

“You know any names of those other guys?” Bosch asked.

“No, not really,” Pascal said. “Been a long time. But Wilson would.”

“But you don’t know where he is?”

“No, I don’t. Scout’s honor.”

He pulled his right hand out of the hoodie’s front pocket and held it up as if to show his sincerity. Ballard noticed that he was getting happy feet — involuntarily shaking his foot as he got increasingly nervous about the interview. She was sure Bosch had picked up on it as well.

“Did you ever see Gayley get mad or upset with any of the women in the van?” Ballard asked.

“Not that I remember,” Pascal said. “So, all these questions. What’s this all about? I thought you wanted me to help with an investigation or something.”

“You are helping,” Ballard said. “I can’t tell you how because of the case, but you are definitely helping. The thing is, we really need to locate Gayley. Are you sure you can’t help us with that? Give us a name. Somebody else who knows him.”

“I got no names,” Pascal said. “And I really need to go.”

He stood up again but Bosch took his hands off the back of his chair once more and moved a few steps toward the door to block Pascal’s angle to it. Pascal immediately read the situation and sat back down. He slapped his palms down on his thighs.

“You can’t hold me like this,” he said. “You haven’t even given me my rights or anything.”

“We’re not holding you, Mr. Pascal,” Ballard said. “We’re just talking here, and there’s no need for rights at this stage. You’re not a suspect. You are a citizen aiding the police.”

Pascal reluctantly nodded.

“I’m now going to show you some photos of individuals and I want to see if you recognize any of them,” Ballard said. “We want to know if any of these women were ever with Wilson Gayley.”

From her briefcase Ballard pulled out a standard six-pack — a file with six windows cut into it and displaying six photos of different young women. One of the photos was a shot of Daisy Clayton that Ballard had gotten out of the online murder book. It was a posed shot taken at her school in Modesto when Daisy was in the seventh grade. She was smiling at the camera, makeup covering acne on her cheeks, but she looked older than her years and there was already a distant look in her eyes.

Another photo was a mug shot of Tanya Vickers, the prostitute who had been with Pascal and Gayley on the night they had been rousted by the cops and their shake cards were written. While their interaction probably amounted to just that one night, including her photo was intended as a test of Pascal’s veracity.

Ballard flipped the cover of the file back and handed it to Pascal.

“Take your time,” Ballard said.

“I don’t need to,” Pascal said. “I don’t know any of them.”

He reached out to hand the file back but Ballard didn’t take it.

“Look again, Mr. Pascal,” Ballard said. “It’s important. Did any of those women ever get into the van with you and Gayley?”

Pascal withdrew the file and impatiently looked again.

“You know how many women I’ve fucked in ten years?” he asked. “I can’t remember every — maybe her and maybe her.”

“Which ones?” Ballard asked

Pascal turned the file and pointed to two of the photos. One was Vickers. The other was Daisy Clayton.

Ballard took the file back and pointed to the photo of Daisy.

“Let’s start with her,” Ballard said. “You recognize her from the van?”

“I don’t know,” Pascal said. “Maybe. I can’t remember.”

“Think, Mr. Pascal. Look again. How do you recognize her? From where?”

“I told you. I don’t know. It was from back at that time, I guess.”

“She got into the van with you and Gayley?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve fucked about a thousand women since then. How am I supposed to remember them all?”

“It must be difficult. What about her?”

She pointed to the photo of Vickers.

“Same thing,” Pascal said. “I think I remember her from back then. She mighta been in the van.”

“Where in Hollywood would Gayley stop the van to pick up women for his films?” Ballard asked.

“All over the place. Wherever the whores were, you know?”

“Santa Monica Boulevard?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Hollywood Boulevard?”

“Sure.”