George Pelecanos - Hell To Pay

“It’s not news to me. We ran your name through a search engine, and there were plenty of hits.”

“Some people can’t get past it, I guess.”

“Maybe so. But as far as you and me are concerned, this is day one.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, first impression, you seem like an okay guy to me.”

“You seem like an okay guy to me, too.”

“I bought a tomato at Fresh Fields once.”

“You probably spent too much for that shirt you’re wearing, too.”

“It’s a blouse. I paid about forty bucks for it, I think.”

Quinn touched his own T-shirt. “This Hanes I got on? Three for twelve dollars at Target, out on Twenty-nine.”

“I better get out there before they run out.”

Quinn tapped the stack of flyers on the table. “I’ll phone you, keep you caught up.”

“You ready for this?”

“Been a while,” said Quinn. “But yeah, I’m stoked.”

She watched him step out of the coffee shop, studying the way he filled out the seat of his Levi’s and that cocky thing he did with his walk. Talking about her father, giving up something of herself to this guy who was, after all, a stranger, it was not what she would normally do. Add to that, Christ, she should have known better, he was a cop. But there was a connection between them already, sexual and probably emotional; it happened right away like that with her if it happened at all. She had known it two minutes after they had sat down together, and, she had seen it in his damaged green eyes; he had known it, too.

STRANGE looked over the file on Calhoun Tucker that Janine had dropped on his desk.

“Nice work.”

“Thanks,” said Janine. She was sitting in the client chair in Strange’s office. “I ran his license plate through Westlaw; everything came up easy after that. People Finder gave me the previous addresses.”

Strange studied the data. Tucker’s license plate number had given them his Social Security number, his date of birth, his assets, any criminal record, and any lawsuits. Janine had printed out his credit history, with past and present employment, as well. Credit drove the database of information; it was the foundation of computerized modern detective services. It was useless for getting histories on indigents and criminals who had never had a credit card or made time-payment purchases. But for someone like Tucker, who was part of the system, it worked just fine.

Janine had fed Tucker’s SS number into People Finder, a subprogram of Westlaw. From this she had gotten a list of his current neighbors and the neighbors of his previous addresses.

“He looks pretty straight, first glance.”

“No criminal record,” said Janine. “Apart from a default on a car loan, he’s barely stumbled.”

Strange read the top sheet. “Graduate of Virginia Tech. Spends a few years in Portsmouth after college, working as an on-site representative for a company called Strong Services, whatever that’s about.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Looks like he owned a house in Portsmouth. Check on that, too, will you? Whose name was on it, any cosigners, like that.”

“I will.”

“Then he moved over to Virginia Beach.”

“Most likely that’s where he got into entertainment,” said Janine. “Got involved in promotions in clubs, hookups with fraternities, like that. Looks like that’s what he’s doing up here now, with the Howard kids along U Street and the upscale club circuit over around Ninth and on Twelfth.”

“That Audi he’s driving-”

“Leased. Maybe he’s beyond his means, but hey, he’s in a business where image is half of what you are.”

“I heard that.” Strange dropped the file onto his desk. “Well, let me get on out of here, see what I can dig up. Can’t tell much until you face-time.”

“Tucker looks pretty clean to me.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Strange. “There’s nothin’ I’d like better than to give George Hastings a good report.”

Strange got up from his chair and walked around the desk. His office door was closed. He touched Janine on the cheek, then cupped his hand behind her neck, bent down, and kissed her on the mouth.

“You taste good.”

“Strawberry,” said Janine.

Strange clipped his beeper onto his belt and picked up the file.

“Terry phoned in,” said Janine. “He was in Georgetown when he called. Asked Ron to run some girl’s name, see if she has an arrest record in the District.”

“He’s workin’ a job those county women farmed out to us. Did you bill them for that one I did the other night?”

“It went out yesterday.”

“All right, then.” Strange headed for the door. “See you later, baby.”

“Tonight?” said Janine to his back.

Strange kept walking. “I’ll let you know.”

QUINN parked his Chevelle on R Street along Montrose Park, between Dunbarton Oaks and Oak Hill Cemetery in north Georgetown. He walked over to Wisconsin Avenue with a stack of flyers, a small staple gun, and a roll of industrial adhesive tape that he carried in a JanSport knapsack he wore on his back.

Foot traffic was moderate in the business district, with area workers breaking for lunch, along with college kids and the last of summer’s visitors window-shopping the knockoff clothiers and chain stores. There wasn’t anything here that couldn’t be had elsewhere and at a better price. To Quinn, and to most of D.C.’s longtime residents, Georgetown during the day was a charmless tourist trap and a parking nightmare to be avoided at any cost.

Quinn went along Wisconsin and west to the residential side streets, stapling the flyers to telephone poles and taping them to city trash cans. He knew the flyers would largely be gone, ripped down by residents and foot cops, by nightfall, maybe sooner. It was a long shot, but it was a start.

South of the P Street intersection he stopped to talk to a skinny man, all arms and legs, built like a spider, who was leaning in the doorway of Mean Feets, D.C.’s longtime trendsetting shoe boutique, dragging on a Newport. Inside the shop, Quinn saw a handsome older man smoothly fitting a shoe onto the foot of a young woman as a D’Angelo tune came from the open front door.

As a former cop, Quinn knew that urban shoe salesmen spent a good portion of their day standing outside their shops, talking to women walking down the sidewalk, trying to get them inside, into their web. As it was an occupational necessity, they tended to remember not just shoe sizes but faces and names as well. They also serviced many of the city’s hookers and their pimps.

Quinn greeted the skinny man, then opened a leather holder, flashing his badge and license. To the public, it looked like a cop’s badge. Beside a picture of the D.C. flag, it actually read, “Metropolitan Police Department,” over the words “Private Investigator.” It was Quinn’s habit, suggested to him by Strange, to show the license and badge long enough for the flag and MPD moniker to register, then put it away just as fast.

“Investigator, D.C.,” said Quinn. Strange had taught him this, too. It wasn’t against the law. It wasn’t even a lie.

“What can I do for you, officer?”

“Name’s Terry Quinn. You?”

“Antoine.”

Quinn unfolded a flyer he had kept in his back pocket and handed it to Antoine. Antoine squinted through the smoke curling up from the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Any chance you’ve seen this girl?”

“Don’t look familiar.”

“You sell shoes to prostitutes from time to time, don’t you?”

“Sure, I got my regular ladies, come in for their evening shoes. But I don’t recognize this one. Been doin’ this a long time in the District, too. She hookin’?”