by Sean Black
A couple of restaurant menus poked out from under the door of apartment 3C, harbingers of the bad news that Hanger wasn’t home. Ty knocked anyway, stepping off again so that no one inside could see him unless they opened the door.
When no one answered, Ty knocked again. He pressed his hand to the door. It was sturdy and from a quick look, well secured. It was the type of door he would recommend to one of his clients out in Arcadia. The only way inside would be to use a very good locksmith or a battering ram, and neither of those was an option right now.
He took one of his home produced flyers, grabbed a sharpie and drew an arrow pointing to Hanger’s face before propping the flyer against the foot of the door so that Hanger wouldn’t miss it upon his eventual return.
Ty took the elevator back down. The lobby was quiet. He walked back over to the mailboxes and was about to drop another flyer into Hanger’s mailbox when he saw a sliver of white envelope poking out.
Pinching the nails of his finger and thumb together, Ty managed to work it out. It took some delicate maneuvering, but after a minute he extracted it. He turned it over and smiled as he read the name on the envelope, Carl Gaudi.
Jamming the envelope into his pocket, he stuffed his flyer through the gap.
28
“Wow, you really took a beating, didn’t you?” said Angie as Lock limped his way out of his car outside the Miller household.
“You should see the other guy,” said Lock.
She shot him a wry smile. “Let me guess, not a mark on him?”
Lock laughed. It hurt.
The way she’d said it wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. But it did have the tone of someone who was familiar with being the nail rather than the hammer.
Angie had chosen not to see herself as a victim. She’d told Lock that the first time they’d met. She’d also told him a little about her time on the other side of the fence. It was a story that held more than its fair share of violence, physical as well as emotional. Lock had reflected that most people went through an entire career in the military and experienced less violence and trauma than a teenager out on the streets for a couple of years. No one held any parades for them either.
Angie rang the bell, Lock by her side.
After a while, Joyce Miller opened the door. She looked beyond exhausted. It had only been a few days since Lock had seen her last, but it may as well have been years. Her daughter’s continued absence was taking its toll, and Lock wished now he’d been able to bring some good news.
“What happened to your face?” Kristin’s mom said.
“Oh this,” said Lock, playing it off. “It’s nothing. A slight misunderstanding. May we come in?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Angie gave her a hug and Lock followed them into the living room. Kristin’s grandfather was nowhere to be seen.
Lock decided to start by ripping off the first band aid.
“We haven’t found Kristin yet,” he said. “But we do have some promising leads, and I’m hopeful that it won’t be too much longer.”
“I’m just so grateful that you’re helping,” said Joyce. “I spoke with the Sheriff’s department and again with the LAPD. They said they’re doing what they can, but there are so many young people in Kristin’s situation.”
Lock cleared his throat. It was time to rip off the second Band Aid. He was sure the picture they had of the girl with the tattoo wasn’t Kristin, but he needed to be positive.
“Mrs. Miller, we did find someone on the internet, but this young woman had a birthmark. Does Kristin have a birth mark up around her hip?”
“No,” said Joyce Miller. “She has one near her shoulder.”
Lock exchanged a look with Angie. He was ninety-nine percent positive they weren’t looking at a shoulder, but the image was a closeup of the girl’s body.
“Would you mind taking a look?” said Angie, sparing Lock having to make the request. He couldn’t think of many things worse than having to identify your daughter on a website like this one. Well, there was one worse identification you could make, but they weren’t there yet, and Lock hoped they would never be.
“Sure.”
Angie took out her cell phone and pulled up the photograph. She passed the phone over.
Joyce took a long look. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“No, it’s not Kristin,” she said, then she got up and rushed out of the room.
Lock stayed put. He heard her go into the bathroom, followed by the sound of her throwing up, followed by water running into the sink.
Angie got up and went to check on her. Lock got up too. He walked over and picked up a framed picture of Kristin. In this one she was even younger, her hair was up in bunches and she had a look of carefree happiness that kids had when they’d yet to see the other side of the world they’d been born into, the darker side.
After a few minutes, Angie came back in with Joyce, who apologized profusely.
“There’s no need,” said Lock. “This is tough.”
And, he thought, about to get tougher. There was one more thing that he needed to show Joyce. One more set of images that once seen couldn’t be unseen.
He pulled up the video that Ty had taken in the apartment that they believed Kristin was sharing with one of Hanger’s girls. Lock explained to Joyce what it was and where it had been taken.
“If you recognize anything that belongs to Kristin, that would be helpful. Maybe a bracelet or an item of clothing.”
Joyce watched the short pan across the bedroom. She stopped Lock. “There.”
He hit the pause icon.
“Those shorts,” she said, pointing to a pair of denim cut-offs. “We had an argument when she bought them. I thought they were, you know, inappropriate.”
“Okay,” said Lock. “And you’re sure these are Kristin’s.”
“Yes,” she said. “There’s like this glittery logo on the back, see.”
“Thank you,” said Lock, his and Ty’s suspicions confirmed.
“Can’t the police go round there?” said Joyce. “See if she’s come back there?”
“It’s definitely a location we can keep an eye on.”
Lock didn’t hold out too much hope that Kristin would be back there any time soon. She was in the wind.
Angie and Lock said their goodbyes. Angie walked him back to his car.
“Rough, isn’t it?” she said.
“You can say that.”
“You know you’re running a risk going after her.”
Lock stopped, his hand on the door frame of the car. he looked at Angie.
“You think we should back off?” he said.
“No,” said Angie. “But there’s a chance that if this pimp gets desperate, he does something to her.”
“You mean like get rid of her?”
Angie glanced up at the bright blue Los Angeles sky, her eyes squinting at the winter sun, then back at Lock.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said.
29
Lock watched in his rearview mirror as Ty’s car pulled into the space behind him. The six foot four inch Marine got out and lumbered over, opened the passenger door and got in.
“So, who’s making the call?” said Ty.
“I thought you would,” said Lock.
“Why should it be me?”
“I don’t know what to ask,” said Lock.
“What you saying? That I do? I’ve never paid for the company of a female in my life. Not even when I was overseas in the Corp and it was hard to come by.”
“And neither have I,” said Lock.
Ty reached out his hand for Lock’s phone. “Here, I’ll do it.”
Lock tapped in the number from the ad featuring the girl with the birthmark and the Hanger tattoo and handed his phone to Ty.
“Hey,” said Ty. “I was looking to make an appointment.”
Lock had to look away to stop from laughing. Ty made it sound like he was checking in to see a dentist. Ty
scowled at him.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” said Ty, finally. “Where you at?”
There was a pause.
“No,” he said. “No special requests.”
Lock had rarely seen Ty this uncomfortable before. It was hard not to find it funny.
“It’s down in Van Nuys,” said Ty after he’d hung up and handed Lock’s phone back to him.
He read off the address. It was a twenty minute drive.
They took Lock’s car. He parked around the corner from the apartment block. Ty got out. He would go inside first, and Lock would follow a few minutes later.
They didn’t know if this was one of Hanger’s stable of girls or not. They didn’t know if she would be alone. But they did know that if she was rocking ink with his name on it that there was a slight chance she might help them find Kristin.
Three minutes after Ty had left, Lock got a text. He got out of the car and he walked around to the apartment building. He hit the buzzer and Ty buzzed him inside.
Ty opened the door. The girl from the ad was sitting on a couch in the living room. She was about five feet two, a little chubby and mixed race, just like the girl in the ad. Lock pegged her as early to mid-twenties. She was wearing a red silk robe and smoking a Newport.
“This is Shanice,” said Ty by way of introduction.
Shanice did not look overly amused by the intrusion or by the fact that Ty was not a regular customer. Lock didn’t necessarily blame her.
“Hey, Shanice, what do you usually get for a half hour?” Lock asked.
“A hundred. Plus, tip.”
Lock pulled two hundred dollars out of his wallet and handed it to her. She took it without a word.
“This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” he said. “You tell her why we’re here?” he asked Ty.
Ty nodded.
“We believe the girl we’re trying to locate is with Hanger.”
“I don’t know no Hanger,” she said.
“That’s funny because you have his name inked on your body,” said Lock.
She looked up at him, suddenly flirty. “Do I?” said Shanice, pulling up the bottom of her robe.
“I know you do. Now, listen, we’re not here to cause you any problems. We just want to find Kristin Miller. You help us do that and there’s another five hundred dollars in it for you.”
“Shit, I make that in one afternoon.”
“Okay, a thousand. Payable when we find her. You know she’s fourteen years old, right?”
The mention of Kristin’s age drew a flicker of emotion. Lock saw it pass like a cloud over her face and then disappear back behind the hardened mask.
“If you’re scared of Hanger, don’t be,” said Ty. “When we have Kristin, I’m going to deal with him before the cops do.”
This was news to Lock, but hardly a headline grabber. Ty had the same reaction to a man like Hanger that Lock did. Complete and utter contempt. At the same time Lock didn’t want Ty facing a judge because he’d taken out a piece of shit like Hanger. That however was a discussion for later.
For what it was worth, Shanice seemed to believe Ty. So did Lock for that matter. Ty was a man who made promises rather than one who simply issued idle threats.
“Okay, so I have his name on me. But I’m not his ho anymore.”
Lock was about to ask if she’d replaced Hanger with another pimp. He stopped himself. It wasn’t relevant, and it wasn’t any of his business.
“We just want to find this girl,” said Lock. “Anything you can tell us that might help us do that would be appreciated.”
“Well, seeing as y’all are here now, and you already paid for my time, you want something to drink? I’m going to make myself some peppermint tea,” she said, getting up and bustling past them toward the kitchen.
“I’m good,” said Lock.
“Sure,” said Ty. “I’ll take a coffee.”
She stopped, turned, and cocked a hand to her hip. “You have a hearing problem? Did I say anything about coffee?”
“Tea’s good too,” Ty hastily corrected.
Lock smiled. He’d only met her a few minutes ago, but Shanice was kind of growing on him.
Five minutes later, Shanice settled herself back down as Ty politely sat across from her, sipping his tea. Lock had given her some background to Kristin falling into Hanger’s grip and it seemed to be a pattern she recognized.
“Get some pretty boy to reel them in and then before you know it you’re selling your ass out on the track and giving him every dime you make,” came her summation.
“Would you have any idea where we might find Kristin, or Hanger for that matter?”
She shrugged. “It’s been like a year. He has a crib in Santa Monica, I know that much.”
“We already know about that,” said Ty.
“Then that’s all I got. He puts his girls on a track downtown, or in an apartment, sometimes a motel, but those change all the time. He never leaves a girl in the one place for too long.”
This was looking like a dead end, thought Lock.
“How come you still have his ink?” said Ty matter-of-factly.
Shanice straightened up. Her hand instinctively fell to her leg as she traced a pattern with her fingertip.
“I’ve thought about that laser removal, but I figured I’d keep it. Remind me never to fall for a man’s bullshit again. I’ve got about another five years in the life and then I plan on going back to college training to be a nurse.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” said Lock, meaning it but not entirely sure that’s how life would go. From what Angie had told him the problem to getting out of the life was the same one he’d had working in high end security. You got used to the money.
“I hear you” said Ty, rolling up a sleeve to reveal one of his many tattoos, this one a Marine Corps emblem.
“Damn, boy,” said Shanice, taking in a bicep that was as thick as most men’s thighs. “You’re in good shape for an old guy.”
Lock bit back another laugh. Ty had definitely found his match.
“Hurt like hell at the time,” said Shanice. “I’ll tell you that much. He almost had to hold me down.”
Something occurred to Lock. “Does he get that put on all his girls?”
She shot him an irritated look. “Yeah, it’s like cattle.”
“Does the person doing it know what it means?” said Lock.
“Course he does. They’re buddies,” she said.
“Wait. He uses the same tattooist every time?” said Lock.
“Far as I know. Think they met one time when they were in county together. The guy’s like some gnarly cracker. Gave me the creeps.”
“You remember his name?” said Ty, following Lock’s train of thought.
“No, but I can tell you where his studio was,” said Shanice, extending her hand. “That’ll be extra though.”
She looked back to Ty. “Unless you want to hang around, sweet thing.”
30
With Ty at the wheel of Lock’s car, they headed east towards Bakersfield. In the passenger seat, Lock finally gave into the pain overwhelming his body, palmed two Vicodin from a brown plastic pill bottle and swallowed them down with a glug of water. Ty side eyed him as the speed trap detector on the dash beeped and Ty eased up on the gas, dropping down from ninety to the speed limit.
“What?” said Lock.
“You ain’t pissing blood or anything, are you?”
“No, I’m just a little sore. Been a while since I was last beaten up,” said Lock.
“Good to have a little reminder once in a while. Helps maintain vigilance.”
“Guess that’s one way of looking at it,” said Lock.
“You think we’re just going round in circles here?” said Ty.
“Perhaps, but what’s the alternative?”
“If they did time in the joint, then I don’t see this dude giving up his buddy.”
Lock didn’t disagree. Then again, there were ways of persua
ding people to do all kinds of things they might not do of their own volition. It was just a question of how far he and Ty were willing to go, and how much pressure they were prepared to apply.
Pulling up the tattoo studio details on his phone, Lock swiped through pictures. They’d be outside the place in twenty minutes, and he wanted to know going in who he was looking for.
Google revealed the owner and chief tattooist as one Gilman Spinner, a twenty-seven-year-old skinhead from the Inland Empire. A deeper dig revealed someone with a string of convictions for petty crime and some involvement with a number of white supremacist groups in the area.
The tattoo studio was located in a rundown strip mall on the edge of Bakersfield, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a Vietnamese restaurant. Ty pulled into a parking spot outside the restaurant, and they got out.
A bell jangled as they walked into the tattoo parlor. Every available inch of wall was adorned with potential designs and photographs of presumably satisfied customers. None of the photographs seemed to feature underage trafficked girls, but that was hardly a surprise.
Lock could remember when tattoos were the preserve of sailors, military personnel, prison inmates and members of street gangs rather than soccer moms and teenage girls. The thought made him feel old.
Gilman was in back, hunched over a jacked up bodybuilder type in a wife beater. Gilman looked up as he came in. He took in Lock first, apparently unfazed by his bruised face. Then he saw Ty, and there was a flicker of something else that lay between unease and distaste. Judging by the photographs on the wall, he didn’t have many African American customers.
“Sorry, guys, it’s appointment only right now.”
This was music to Lock’s ears. Appointments usually meant an appointment book with names and dates and times. Unless of course it was something he was saying to get rid of them, which was eminently possible.
“No problem,” said Lock. “I’ll make an appointment.”
“Yeah, we’ll make an appointment.”
Gilman put down the tattoo gun. “I don’t have anything free for the next week.”
