Worthington sat holding Jared's file, mulling over its contents and Jim's comments to him. He kept remembering something Hendricks had said before changing his mind about talking to Worthington.
Last week. Early last week, he had said.
~
Killian sat in on the interrogations of both Tony and Chado early that same afternoon. Chado had nothing to say but the tracks on his arms indicated that he would be sweating pretty badly by evening.
Tony knew the game was up. He spilt his guts, eager to cooperate, hoping the judge would take it into account at sentencing. Caught cold, he knew there was no point in denial.
Killian was uncertain as to which approach was better, Tony's or Chado's. He let the other cops conduct the interviews and returned to his desk. At three-thirty two he called Worthington who came on the line almost immediately.
"We busted Tony today," Killian began. In short order he ran down what had taken place.
"That's too bad," Worthington said when the detective had finished. "I always hope the long term junkies will turn around but they so rarely do. I'm glad you caught him right away before he pulled too many burglaries. The less harm done the better."
The two spoke a few minutes during which the P.O. agreed to place the hold on Espinoza. Then Worthington asked, almost as an afterthought, "Say Bob, you know that desert slaying last week?"
"Vaguely, I work burglaries.”
"I've got a guy who's probably capable of something like that. I've got no reason to think he did it but he could have. Somebody over there ought to check him out."
"O.K. I'll see who's on the case at homicide and give them his name. What is it?"
"Pratt. Jared Pratt."
CHAPTER TEN
The boy-man slept late the following day, his troubled dreams returning as he had known they inevitably must. Disturbing, unsettling, sometimes frightening, they left him mentally exhausted by the time he awakened.
Jared stumbled quietly down the hallway to the kitchen, hoping that he was home alone. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was four-sixteen. He had missed the afternoon cartoon shows and, mildly irritated, turned to preparing his usual breakfast of dry cereal and a soft drink, today a grape.
Last night had been a severe strain on him, fighting with his father as he had. Not fighting really, for Jared had said very little, mumbling occasional disagreement, fuming in silent, visible anger, crying and finally throwing a fit. His mother had interceded on his behalf a time or two initially but had been shouted down by her husband.
The night before Herbert Pratt launched into one of his periodic, unpredictable rages, directed as usual against his only child and against the mother who bore him. In drunken anger he had swaggered about the kitchen, slamming his fist into walls and onto table tops, shouting his obscenities and accusations.
His tirade had followed its usual line. He was not the father of his no-good, lazy, faggot son. Viola was a whore and a cheat who coddled Jared and made it impossible for Herbert to make a man out of him.
Usually Jared's father stormed from the house following one of these outbursts or if not he drove the other two out, ending the outpouring of savage anger. And it would have been the same except that last night, unexpectedly, Jared had dared defend himself, albeit ineffectually. But Herbert had seen the open defiance and had been enraged further, slamming Viola against the kitchen wall, throwing a carving knife at Jared, screaming he wanted to kill the boy.
Jared had fled and hidden animal-like in the oleander bushes which divided the back yard from the alley listening to the screams of rage within the brightly lit house. Never before had he witnessed such anger in his father. Long after silence and darkness descended on the house, he crept through his bedroom window and restlessly slept.
~
Herbert was afraid to go to his office that morning. He only dimly recalled the events of the previous night. He thought angrily of his son and determined to throw the son of a bitch out once and for all.
But Viola and Jared were not the true source of his anger, that stemmed from his work. The newspaper called it a mild recession. Mild hell, he thought, it's killing me.
Herbert's father had been a successful contractor during the Second World War. It had been Herbert's older half-brother, however, who had taken over the business forcing his younger, detested brother into a career of his own making. Herbert had never forgiven himself for failing to stand up to his half-brother during the takeover and he had vowed to get even by becoming an even greater financial success. He had never taken or asked for any help from his half-brother and never would.
By ruthless tactics, liberal kickbacks and by taking incredible chances he had successfully rolled his small inheritance over and over again. It had all been a magnificent, intoxicating game in those first days.
Following the initial successes, a lean, courteous and unscrupulous Herbert had courted and married Viola Milton, one of the most available women in Phoenix. Following a suitable period he had examined her finances and been shocked to learn of her meager trust income and furious five years later when her father died, virtually impoverished, all his assets diverted to various charities and foundations. Still, by hook or crook he’d succeeded, until now.
What the hell happened? Herbert asked himself, his four wheel drive idling at a red light in the blazing afternoon sun. It was a pointless question he asked himself frequently these days. Pointless because he knew perfectly well what had happened. Gladis Fischer, his former partner's youthful wife, had happened. That indiscretion followed by her husband's vehemence and the “mild” recession had all happened and he had not possessed the reserves to survive.
Oh, he knew he could get by for a time and daily he wished for a miracle but in his heart he knew there was no real hope for salvation. He lived off his cash flow, robbing Peter to stave off Paul, his assets hooked to the limit. Barring the prayed for miracle he faced certain bankruptcy inside one year. God damn that cunt Gladis, he cursed in silent rage. Herbert borrowed on falsified statements, obtained lines of credit and charge cards all of which he used to live flamboyantly. When it got to him he took it out on the son he despised and the wife who had betrayed him when she failed to inherit wealth.
Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em all, he thought turning towards the exclusive condominium where he had lately become a regular fixture. Those early years had been something though, he thought, parking in the driveway. Luscious little brown skinned Mexican girls, smiling white teeth, eager to screw or drink or both. Not like now, he fumed, paying some high priced whore for a blow job.
At precisely four-fifty three in the afternoon Herbert inserted his key into the locked rear door of his mistress’s condominium.
~
Evening came late in the day, the heat rippling off the desert floor. Jared drove across west Phoenix no longer blinded by the setting sun. His eyes rested upon it briefly, unseeing as the golden ball grew in size before plunging abruptly from sight.
There were three of them lined along the south side of the paved road just outside the city limits. Each mobile home was like the others, white, a little dusty, crudely lettered signs prominently displayed identifying them, "Exotic Delight" , "The Turkish Harem" , and the one Jared selected, "The Velvet Touch."
"Hi mister. What can I do for you?" she asked, hand resting on bare hip. The whore was twenty-one or two, stretch marks clearly visible across her flaccid stomach. She stood firmly on meaty legs with cellulite thighs, her small scarcely concealed breasts drooping as though she were already old.
Jared found himself virtually unable to talk. Fortunately he could see no one else.
"Whacha want, mister?" the prostitute asked approaching Jared, smiling a thin presumably sexy smile.
"Huh, you know," he stammered.
"Don't be shy. I won't hurt you. You got money?" the woman asked looking at his clothes. Jared nodded his head. "Show me," she demanded.
He reached within his pants and produced the dead girl'
s money.
"O.K. Back here," the woman said, pushing a button to summon another girl to the front. The brothel never closed and was always manned by at least one “masseuse”.
The hooker entered the tiny bedroom ahead of Jared, dimming the light as she did, bending to straighten the disheveled sheets before turning to face her customer.
"Whacha want?" she repeated business-like. Jared shrugged. "O.K. Here's how it goes. You wanna straight massage that's twenty. Frenchy is forty, half and half sixty, a straight fuck fifty. You wanna another girl to join in it's a hundred. With a Les show, that's two bills. Watcha want?" she repeated. Jared didn't know. "O.K. Buddy you think a minute while I check you out." The woman knelt in front of him and dropped his trousers, unfastening them faster than Jared could.
She pulled his jockey shorts down and cupped his testicles in her finger tips checking the skin for signs of disease. The sac and shaft appeared free of sores and rashes. Standing up, she leaned against his chest and said, "You're fine. Whacha want?"
Jared swallowed and stammered, "I think, huh, a half and half." He had read about it once in a magazine. A blow job followed by a fuck.
"That's sixty than," she said hand extended. Jared counted out the money dipping into his other pocket for forty-five more.
"I'll be right back, hon," she said heading out the door, "strip and lay down."
When she returned she took a pan of cold soapy water and a sponge then proceeded to wash her customer’s genitals. She took much longer than usual, noting that he didn't get an erection like most did. She placed the pan and cloth aside, then licking her lips once she sucked his organ into her mouth.
A few minutes later the prostitute was upset. The guy's a fag, she thought. She had given him her best but he remained flaccid. "Look fella," she said nastily glancing up at him, "I ain't got all night. You don't get your money back so you oughta get your money's worth. Butcha better hurry." She returned to his penis but it was useless. "Shit," she muttered, stretching her jaw. Without warning she left the room.
"Joe!" she shouted. A burly brute in T-shirt promptly appeared.
“I gotta dead one. Why doncha explain he's gotta go?"
The bouncer nodded his head and entered the bedroom.
A few minutes later, Jared sat behind the wheel of his car, embarrassed, humiliated and angry. All the money gone. The girl's, his mother's, all gone.
She's just a whore, he thought driving off. They're all just whores.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
With the arrest of Tony Espinoza, Killian found himself with free time. He scanned reports the sergeant had assigned him but saw nothing that promised an arrest for his efforts. Nevertheless, he would go through the motions. Something unexpected might turn up.
It was after lunch the day following Espinoza's arrest when Killian remembered Worthington's request. The detective took the slip of paper with Pratt's name on it and sought out Homicide. He found Sergeant Bustamante, neat, trim and fit as always.
"Hi Steve," he said walking into the office, a cubby hole sufficient for desk, chair and file cabinet.
"Hello, Bob," Bustamante replied. “What brings you here to mix with the high and mighty? Still trying to get into Homicide?" Actually it was Bustamante who wanted Killian in his squad but the burglary detective had thus far resisted the plum assignment.
"Naw. Homicide’s too bloody. I like my junkies," Killian said. "I came by to see who's working that girl's case, the one they found last week in the desert."
"Well, Graff supposedly but it looks like a dead end so he's not doing much of anything on it. No leads or physical evidence at all. We'll follow up anything we get and someone will continue working the case as a matter of routine but I doubt if we'll turn anything up on our own without help. Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious." Killian would give the name directly to Graff. He didn't want to be caught going
over any detective's head. "Where's Lawrence?"
"Well, he's off Homicide for now," Bustamante deadpanned. Killian raised a brow. "You'll find him at Property, manning the bicycle theft desk."
My, my, Killian thought heading back to Property Crimes. Good ol' Lawrence, the asshole, is in Siberia. About time to.
"Hello, Lawrence," he said approaching the beefy, scowling man behind a beat up, tiny wooden desk covered with forms, pencils and worn folders. Graff glanced up, barely nodding. "You have anything on that dead girl's case?"
"No," Graff grunted.
"How about I.D.?" Killian said.
"Nothin'. We got nothin'. I checked it out and it's a dead end. No missing persons locally that match and too many nationally to bother with since we got no idea who she is or where she's from. No physical evidence. Nothin'."
The old detective looked in pain. Like I would if they exiled me to bicycle thefts, Killian thought. "I've got a name for you," he said pulling the slip from his shirt pocket.
“Where'd you get it?" Graff demanded.
"From a P.O. He thinks the guy's capable of something like this and asked me to relay it to Homicide." Killian extended the paper which Graff pointedly ignored.
"Waste of time. What the hell you doin', listening to a P.O.? Those guys drink coffee and turn the assholes loose."
Killian looked at the detective. "You want it or not?" he asked, his voice even.
"Not just no, but hell no," Graff wheezed going into a coughing spasm.
Killian returned the slip of paper back to his pocket. "Mind if I take a look at the D.R. and Medical Examiner's report?"
Graff glared up. "Yeah I mind. It's mine. The fuckin' case is mine."
Killian shrugged and wandered off. He went to the drinking fountain and stood before it in thought then took off at a brisk walk to records. He filled out the slip and twenty minutes later received four responses to the name Jared Pratt only one of which was currently on probation. Placing the other jackets aside he glanced at the file. It contained five reports covering the previous seven years.
After a cursory examination Killian saw why Worthington had turned the name over. Jared Pratt was getting scary.
Killian had the reports copied while he waited talking casually to a uniformed officer he scarcely knew. Under police department regulations he could not obtain a copy of the ongoing Homicide report of the dead girl. Only the officers officially working the case or their superiors had access to it.
Undaunted, Killian moved to the computer room which housed the police criminal justice information system terminal. "Maggie," he said to a young, painfully ordinary girl, "would you check something out for me?"
"Now Bob, you know you have to fill out a slip for that."
There was no devious reason for Killian not to fill out a slip. Any cop had access to this type of information. He just refused to do it on general principles because he remembered the days when police officers didn't have to concern themselves with such foolishness. Besides, he had made more than one case by following the paper trail. Killian did not like leaving tracks in anything he did.
"Maggie, what do you want one more slip of paper for? This will just take a second." He told her what he needed.
Within a minute she had it on the screen and read it out for him. “Hector Martinez, Number U321, Southwest Substation, swing shift, Monday-Tuesdays off."
"You're a sweetheart," he said. Maggie smiled returning to her work.
Killian glanced at his watch and realized that swing shift would start in one hour. Martinez would be reporting to the substation anytime. He checked out of the office, turned in the police vehicle and drove his own to the substation. His shift would be over by the time he finished and he wanted to be free to take off rather than forced to return the car and pick up his own.
Hector Martinez had just finished buttoning his shirt and was reaching for his equipment belt when Killian approached him. "Hello, I'm Bob Killian, C.I.B. Can we talk a minute?"
"Sure thing," the young officer replied, wondering why a detective wanted
to see him.
"I work burglaries but I want to ask about that girl you found." No point in misleading the young policeman, Killian thought.
"Yeah, a real mess," Martinez replied. "I lost my dinner seeing her like that." He grinned sheepishly.
"From what I know, I can see how that would happen. I've seen a few dead and dying but none cut up like I hear she was." Martinez sat on the bench and ran the story down for the detective. Killian took a seat and listened without interruption. "How about tire tracks?" he asked when the earnest cop had finished.
"I guess I wrecked them. At least that's what the techs thought. Before I found the body I'd already parked right where he had."
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