Andrew Vachss - Only Child

Finally, I put some Henske on, closed my eyes, got myself lost in Magic Judy’s “Dark Angel.” When I got to the end of that road, I picked up the cellular and dialed Gem’s number.

It rang twice. Then came the series of tones that were a signal to leave a message.

I never could think of one to leave. But I let her hear the music for a few seconds, so she’d know it was me.

Ilooked out my window. Down into the dark. The deep dark. The Zero. But it didn’t pull at me like it had once. The Zero is everywhere. Always waiting. If I had wanted to...just not be anymore, I wouldn’t have come home to do it.

“What do you want?” He was a middle-aged white male, nothing remarkable, standing in the doorway of a modest Cape Cod. Nine-fifteen on a Thursday evening; just past dark.

“Allow me to introduce myself, sir,” I said. “My name is Mr. White. And this,” I said, nodding toward Clarence, “is my associate, Mr. Black.”

“I’m not buying—”

“And we’re not selling, sir. May we come in?”

“What is—?” he said. But by then we were all inside.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “This won’t take a minute. Is there a place where we could sit down?”

“I...” A guy who’d made a career out of suggesting—hinting, implying, making sure you got the message, without actually saying anything himself. He’d read Clarence’s shoulder holster like a billboard. His eyes never left us as he walked over to a living room dominated by a blank-faced projection TV set.

“All we want is for you to take a look at this photograph,” I said, sitting down.

His mud-brown eyes came alive when I said “photograph,” but I didn’t know him well enough to guess whether it was fear or excitement.

I handed him Vonni’s picture. He took it, tentatively at first, then visibly relaxed as he examined it.

“Have you ever seen her?” I asked him, already knowing the answer.

“No,” he said—indignant, now that he was innocent. “What’s this all about?”

“We’re trying to locate anyone who might have been in contact with her,” I said.

“Why? Is she a runaway or something?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

“Oh. I didn’t...I mean, what happened?”

“It was in all the papers,” I told him. “About a year ago. That’s Vonni Greene.”

“That’s her? I mean, I know what you’re talking about now. I think I did see a picture...in the papers, right...but this doesn’t look like that one, I don’t think. You guys, you’re not cops, are you?”

“No, Mr. Trebin, we’re not the police. That’s what interested us. When the police were investigating the case, they talked to everyone who might have been involved in this girl’s life. Anyone who might have come into contact with her in any way at all. And it seems like they never talked to you.”

“That’s because I never—”

“That’s because they didn’t have your name,” I cut him off. “But we can fix that, if you’d like.”

“I...I don’t care,” he said, falling way short of defiant. “I told you, I’ve never even seen—”

Clarence caught my eye, nodded. But we kept him talking for another few minutes, just to make sure.

“Idon’t like ghosting those country cribs,” the Prof said, back at the house. “People out in the sticks, they don’t mind their own business the way city folks do.”

“How long did it take you?” I asked.

“To get in? It was a cheesebox, Schoolboy. Maybe ten seconds. We didn’t have a floor plan, but I could hear you all talking, so I knew where I had to keep to.”

“Where was it?”

“Basement, bro. Just like we’d figured.”

“And he had a computer?”

“Yeah. I don’t know nothing about the damn things, but he sure had him a big-ass screen for it. Like you said, I didn’t touch it.”

“Find anything else?”

“Pictures, bro. Motherfucker had hundreds of them, minimum. Tacked up all over the place.”

“And they were all—”

“What Cyn said, honeyboy. Like a yearbook from a girls’ school, only in color. Nothing he’s ever gonna go to jail for. One thing, though...”

“What?” Rejji asked.

“No blacks, no Asians, no Latinas—hell, no fucking Indians . Not one. For this boy, all-white was all right.”

“That clinches it,” I said. “He’s not the one.”

“These two are a prize pair of dirtbags,” Wolfe said, handing over a couple of mug shots.

They looked identical, right down to where their bullet heads just inched past the “74” on the vertical measuring bar. Nice specimens. Square-jawed, heavy cheekbones, not a lot of nose or forehead. Prominent trapezius ridges sloped from their thick necks to their wide shoulders. They even had the same expressions on their faces—barely blunted aggression, just a few hundred RPM short of redline.

“What did they go down for?” I asked her.

“They didn’t,” she said. “These are from the arrest. Never went to trial.”

“What were they charged with?”

“This time? Rape. Before that, Assault Two, Assault Three. That’s kind of their specialty.”

“They never went to trial? On any of all that?”

“They pled out to YO on some of them.”

“ Some of them?” Youthful Offender status is usually a one-time present from the criminal-justice system.

“That’s right. Probation. And sealing.”

“No expungement?”

“They did get expungement, on the ones that were dismissed.”

“And this one, for rape, it was dismissed?”

“That one, too.”

“But don’t the cops have to destroy the photos and prints when the court—?”

“Please!” she said scornfully.

“Sorry. You have anything else?”

“Oh, there’s a lot . The boys were impressive athletes in high school. Brett was a wrestler; Bryce played lacrosse. Despite marginal transcripts, they each did very well on the SATs. They went to school upstate, on full scholarships.”

“And...?”

“On their records, it says they withdrew. Truth, they were kicked out.”

“You know what for?”

“They’re rapists,” she said, cold and flat. “But even with all those muscles, they’d still rather use drugs.”

“Date-rape drugs?”

“Oh yes. More than once, at that same school. Nothing ever proven. What they could prove was steroids. Using and selling.”

“That was...back in ’97. They get popped any since then?”

“Sure. They’re hired muscle; it goes with the job description. But the victims not pressing charges, that’s one of the job benefits . So getting busted, it’s only a minor inconvenience. Never lasts long.”

“Are they mobbed up?”

“Not that I could see. And they don’t seem to have any ambition to go into business for themselves. They may be twins, but they’re not exactly the Krays.”

“You have an address?” I said, getting to it.

“All the paper we could find in New York directs to the same place, out on the Island. But that’s their parents’ house—they haven’t lived there for years.”

“Damn.”

“They’re in Jersey now, I’m pretty sure.”

“How come?”

“Because I know where they work,” Wolfe said, handing me a piece of paper.

“Is it a mob joint?”

“You mean, does a family own it?” Giovanni replied. “I don’t know; I can find out. But that’s territory, down there. I mean, it’s mapped territory. So a family man may own it, or may have a piece of it. Or not. But no matter what, I promise you this much: to operate a strip joint anywhere within a hundred miles of Trenton, they’re paying tolls.”