William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Do you have any idea who this is?” Mike said, after examining the photo.

“No. But people don’t normally hide photos of naked girls in their tackle boxes. I thought it might be important.”

“Damn right it’s important.” The photograph showed a petite, blond teenage girl, nude except for a broken heart-shaped pendant on a chain around her neck. The expression on her face was difficult to read. But she was not happy. There was someone else in the foreground, facing away from the camera. The second person was impossible to identify; all that was visible was a bare shoulder and part of the back.

Mike flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had handwritten in a messy scrawl: Kindergarten Club — #1 .

“See that strawberry birthmark on her left shoulder?” Mike said. “And two more below her breasts? I recognize the body markings. This girl was the serial killer’s first victim.”

Ben felt a sudden shortness of breath. “But—this photograph looks as if it was taken recently.”

“I agree. There’s very little fading or discoloration.”

“What does it mean?”

Mike shook his head. “It means this case involving Howard Hamel and the Apollo Consortium just became a hell of a lot more important. And deadly.”

26

TOMLINSON WALKED THE STROLL, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket. It was tough—trying to keep up the Mr. Chameleon front, trying to look for someone without making it obvious he was looking for someone. Trying to get close enough to determine whether each bleached-blonde teen prostitute was the one with a scar across the bridge of her nose. Without getting beat up.

He moved briskly down the street, past the massage parlors and steam baths, the sex shops, and the lavender movie theatres. He approached two ladies occupying the corner of Eleventh and Cincinnati. The one closest to him was a big-boned black woman wearing a halter vest and a fake fur coat. The other woman was standing in the shadows; he couldn’t see her clearly.

“Wanna date?” the black woman asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Tomlinson said. “But not with you, I’m afraid.”

“Wassa matter with me, chump?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Do I scare you? Make you wanna run home to your mama?”

“No…I’m just looking for someone in particular.”

“I’ll bet.” She turned to her companion. “Gump with a tall bank.”

Translation: homosexual with a lot of money. Tomlinson grinned. Wrong on both counts.

The companion stepped into the light of the street lamp. She had dark hair and was in her mid-thirties, probably. It was hard to be certain; they aged quickly on the streets. But she wasn’t the one he was looking for.

“You ladies wouldn’t know a girl named Trixie, would you? I’m told she works The Stroll, too.”

“Why do you ask?” the black woman said. “Are you her daddy?”

“No. Just an interested party.”

“I figures. That Trixie, she’s more your speed. Tiny and unthreatening. And white.”

“We have a prior relationship,” Tomlinson explained, stretching the truth a bit.

“A repeat customer, huh? Well, ain’t that peachy?” She shared a laugh with her dark-haired friend. “Sugar, you just hustle on down three corners thataway. You’ll find your dream girl. If she ain’t busy at the moment. She’ll be with Buddy, most likely. Come to think of it, you may like Buddy better than you do Trixie.” They had another big laugh.

Tomlinson thanked them and headed in the direction the woman had pointed. He couldn’t work up much irritation, much less anger, toward his informants. It wasn’t their fault, this bizarre life they led. He knew from the days when he walked this beat regularly that prostitutes were almost always hardcore sexual abuse victims. And if they weren’t when they came to the oldest profession, they certainly would be before they left. Talk about life on the edge. Most had daily contact with sex and needles, one of the most likely ways to contract AIDS, the twentieth-century plague.

It hurt worst when he saw the teenagers, the girls who for whatever reasons, usually compelling ones, had run away from home and joined the street culture. When he had walked this beat, he’d made a concerted effort to get as many of them off and out as possible. The hell with busting them—he just tried to get them into a life-style that wouldn’t kill them before they were old enough to drive. He had some successes, too, but far more failures. It was a matter of timing. If he could catch them early on, say, during their first year, there was a chance he could get them off the streets, relocate them, find them another job. Over a year—forget it. They were here for life.

It was the newfound freedom that was their biggest enemy. The girls split from their homes and suddenly they could do anything they wanted. They could stay out all night, they could go to rock concerts, they could get dope without any trouble. Ts and Blues all night long. A dream come true, right? Until they were trapped. Until the pimp took control of their life, and the drugs took control of their life, and the booze took control of their life. Soon everyone and everything had control of their life. Except them.

A few blocks down the street, Tomlinson found her. She fit the description the man in the tattoo shop had given perfectly. She was extremely thin; something had been wedged in her bra to suggest a fullness she did not have. As he approached, he could see that her hair was not naturally blond, and he could see the adolescent acne that marked her skin. As if to confirm the ID, a pool of pennies lay scattered around her feet.

She was standing next to an older man with thinning reddish hair. The man wore tight leather leggings; he was obviously a male prostitute.

Tomlinson approached the girl casually. “Are you Trixie?”

She looked back at him, openly suspicious. “Who wants to know?”

He silently noted the small scar across the bridge of her nose. “I do. I’ve been looking for you for three days.”

“Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you did. Why would you assume—”

“Because you’re with the Fury, that’s why.”

Tomlinson was crestfallen; he knew the street slang for vice cops. Strike two for Mr. Chameleon. “Did someone recognize me?”

“Nah. It was just obvious. Wasn’t it, Buddy?” The man in the leather leggings nodded his head.

“I thought I was blending in.”

“Well, next time you want to blend in, leave the fancy blue jeans at home. They’re way too new, not to mention too expensive, for anyone around here. And while you’re at it, forget the penny loafers, too.”

“I thought I had this down pat.”

“That’s the main problem. You’re trying too hard. And you’re looking for something specific, not just any port in the storm, like everyone else around here.”

Tomlinson had to grin. Mr. Chameleon had been undone by Miss Marple in a halter top. “My name’s Tomlinson. I understand you were a close friend of Suzie’s.”

“Do you know where she is?” Trixie said anxiously, stumbling awkwardly in her high heels. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere.”

“I…may know where she is,” Tomlinson said. “Can we talk privately?” After some initial hesitation, Trixie followed him to the steps of a nearby building. Tomlinson noticed that Buddy kept a close eye on them.

“I called the county jail,” Trixie said, “but they told me they didn’t have anyone by her description. I called the hospitals, too, but no luck. She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“That depends.” Tomlinson saw that he was attracting attention from some nasty-looking men on the opposite side of the street. Chitchat was frowned upon; you were supposed to strike a deal and get off the street. “Do you know whether Suzie had a tattoo?”