Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Why not, Alex? Maybe she’s lying and they rekindled. Maybe they’ve been screwing since he moved in. She gives him a key, getting in would be no problem.”

That didn’t explain Braun. Or the Camaro. While I considered pointing that out, he said, “Or Chelsea gave him the key. She wanted her real dad — or her best friend, whatever Bitt was to her at that point — to protect her against Fake-Dad who never gave a damn about her. And stole her candy. We know Bitt wasn’t home the night Chet got shot. He coulda followed Chet to the motel, done the deed, taken the Rover and the girlfriend, done her in some other spot, and put himself up in a hotel. Next morning he comes back and continues to ignore me. You know something, Alex, with the paternity thing and the confrontation, I’m feeling I can put together a warrant, gonna go judge-hunting.”

“What about Braun and Mr. Camaro?”

“I’m not Moses on the Mount, one thing at a ti—”

A burp-like noise cut off the last word.

He said, “Call waiting. Hold on, that could be John Nguyen. I put in a call to talk about Bitt being a pedophile, let’s see what he has to say about this. ”

He was off the line for several moments, came back talking fast.

“Not John, Petra. My stars and planets must be aligning weird, check this out.”

My turn to listen.

I said, “The citizenry going that extra mile.”

“Obviously, you wanna be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The woman’s given name was Sarabeth Sarser. Her street names were: Sadie, Sammantha, Samanthalee, Bettisam, and, inexplicably, Beanie Baby.

She’d worked the street for fifteen of her thirty-one years, shuffling identities in order to confuse law enforcement as she traveled up and down the state and into Nevada and back. The past seven years, she’d concentrated her efforts in Hollywood, energy for the road fading due to poly-drug usage.

No more fooling anyone; she solicited with little guile, got arrested, paid her tickets, kept working.

She’d been picked up for the fortieth or so time by a cop named Harry Bucksteen. Bucksteen had irritated a superior, gotten pulled off a cushy paperwork job and transferred to the prostitution prevention program Petra had described. Instead of following the early intervention directive, he’d gone the conventional route: waiting for girls to complete transactions with clients, then stepping in and harassing both ends of the sex-trade supply-demand curve.

“Believe that?” said Sarabeth Sarser. “Lazy fat fuck totally broke the rules.”

Petra said, “Lucky for you he’s lazy. Now you have something to trade with.”

“I was gonna call you anyway. It’s the right thing to do,” said Sarser. “Ma’am.”

She had a well-formed, perfectly oval face marred by under-the-eyes meth smudges and vicious skin eruptions layers of makeup couldn’t conceal. A black poly cocktail dress, skull earrings, plastic pearls, and white knee-high boots formed her ensemble of the evening. Long white-blond hair that probably looked okay in nighttime lighting was turned to straw by coffee shop glare.

The shop was a dingy place called Happy Losers, renamed last year by its latest owners because Joan and Bill’s didn’t have that ring. No change to the décor in decades; that and overpriced coffee explained the hipster-slackers nursing cracked mugs of Arabica while studying their phones. The coffee accounted for the rest of tonight’s customers, as well: pushers, procurers, other streetwalkers, and the cops who played legal Ping-Pong with them.

A couple of uniforms on Code Seven in a corner booth recognized Sarser when we walked in and gave her a finger-wave.

She said, “Hey, boys,” and wiggled her hips in a way that sent a shimmer up to her shoulders.

The cops laughed, saw Milo, returned to their sandwiches.

Petra picked a booth in the opposite corner. “Sit here, Bean.” Tapping blue vinyl. When Sarser complied, she slid in next to her. Milo and I sat opposite.

Sarser said, “I feel so popular.”

“You are,” said Milo. “Thanks for helping us out.”

“Of course, sir. I am kind of hungry.”

Twenty minutes later, she pushed aside the few bites of cheeseburger she’d managed. Her eyes were pinballs. The black dress bagged and twisted as her torso shifted constantly.

She looked at the burger with the longing of an abandoned lover. Plenty of reach, no grasp. All those amphetamine nights killing appetite and sleep.

“Shit deal,” she said, “but we’re glad, no?”

“Shit deal about what?” said Milo.

“The guy got killed, sir.”

“You know him?”

“No, sir, never even saw him.” Sarser belched. “Oops.”

“Never saw him before he got killed.”

“Never saw him ever, sir. Just heard.” Flicking a skull earring. “The gun-pops. Then I saw what I saw and knew I had to help you guys ’cause you guys have a job to do and I totally get that. Sir.”

“You made the first call anonymously to our desk,” said Petra. “Why not 911?”

“You know, ma’am.”

“Know what?”

“Privacy?” said Sarser.

“Aha,” said Petra.

“What’s the diff, I told you now, ma’am.”

“So you did, Beanie. As the lieutenant said, we all appreciate your stepping forward.”

Sarser smiled and played with a piece of limp lettuce. Her nails were inch-long vinyls the color of arterial blood.

No one talked and that seemed to unsettle her. “You know, guys, I saved up.”

“Saved what?” said Petra.

“What happened. In my head, it’s still there. You have to save thoughts like money, my gram always told me.”

“Did she,” said Petra. “Where does Gram live?”

“Now she’s in the cemetery, ma’am.”

“Sorry to hear about that.”

Sarser’s pale, pimpled shoulders rose and fell. “It’s okay, she was old.”

Milo said, “She raise you?”

“Uh-uh, no way, Mom did. Then Mom went to prison then she died and I got fostered but I used to visit Gram. She had all her money ’cause she saved it.”

Her face hardened. Remembering.

And during your visits, you decided to let her share involuntarily.

Milo said, “Okay, let’s go over it again, Bean.”

“I already told her — told you everything, ma’am, right?”

“Right,” said Petra. “The lieutenant’s the boss, go over it again.”

“The boss,” said Sarabeth Sarser. She shot Milo a ragged tweaker smile. “Can I have pie, sir?”

“Still hungry?” He pointed to the barely touched burger.

“Pie’s different, sir. It’s like a different thing.”

“Gotcha, Bean. Soon as we’re finished, pie it is. Go over it again.”

“I was there and heard it and later I saw it.” Another grin.

Milo said, “That’s not pie, kid, that’s crumbs.”

Sarser laughed. “Okay. All right. Okay. I was there—”

“In room thirteen of the Sahara.”

“Don’t know the number.”

“It was thirteen,” said Petra.

“Really? That’s a shit unlucky number,” said Sarser. “Maybe that’s why.”

“Why what?”

“Something bad happened.”

“In room fourteen.”

“Well... it’s like the whole thing was a bad deal.”

Milo said, “You know the Sahara pretty well?”

Sarser took a moment to reply. “A little.”

“We couldn’t care less about your job, Bean.”

“Job” made her sit up straighter. Validated. “Yeah, I’m there sometimes.”

“That night who was your client?”

“We were just talking, sir.”

“Whatever. Who?”

“Talking, I swear, sir.”

“That’s fine, Bean. Tell us about your client.”