The first man spoke again, “Asshole, you be either a cop, a pervert, or a do-gooder. That what you are, some kind of fucking missionary?”
Houston tried to answer. His throat and nasal passages were still on fire, and he was unable to speak. He knew he needed to answer somehow, so he shook his head.
“What you asking ’bout Cheri for?”
Houston gasped, sucking in a deep breath of air. It seemed an eternity before he was able to say, “Family . . . asked me . . . find her.” The words sounded high pitched and squeaky to him.
Houston felt his captors shove his wallet back in his pocket. “Cheri gone, you better be gone, too. I catch you round here again, we gonna fuck you up good. You understand?”
The voice then addressed someone else—the hooker who had used the pepper spray on him. “What you doing spraying that shit on people? This asshole could have been looking to do some business.” Houston heard the sharp sound of a slap.
“I seen one of them trucks and thought he was that fisherman asshole.” She sounded defiant.
Another slap. “You stupid, bitch? I told you that bullshit about a whacked-out, psycho fisherman nothin’ but street talk. Now you get your bony ass movin’. You ain’t made nothing this past week, and I’m running out of patience. Where’s your partner?”
“She’s late again.”
“Oh yeah? Well I be looking into that.”
The pimp turned his attention back to Houston, who felt helpless as a newborn. When the man said, “You get my message, white meat?” Houston could only nod and mumble, “Yeah.”
“This so you remember not to go fucking around on my turf again . . .”
Huge hands grabbed his lapels and lifted Houston off his feet, then a heavy fist slammed into his stomach, driving precious air from his diaphragm. He felt the big hands loosen their grip, dropping him to the sidewalk. Still defenseless, Houston curled into the fetal position. Heavy shoes kicked him in the back, and he rolled against the wall. He struggled to remain conscious as he heard them get into a car. The motor started, and a blast of rap music at 150 decibels ripped apart the quiet night. As the music faded, he spiraled down into the abyss.
_________________
Houston sat on the curb, his vision about fifty percent of normal. A police car pulled up within five feet of him. Two uniformed officers got out. One remained by the car while the other approached him. “What’s wrong, fella? You have one or two too many?”
Houston did not trust his voice yet and merely shook his head. The cop knelt down on one knee and looked into his eyes. Houston realized that he was acting erratically and his eyes were probably bloodshot—all the cop needed to arrest him. Houston stood when the cop pulled him up by the arm. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you off the street and sobered up.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Sure you aren’t. That’s why you’re sitting here next to a puddle of puke at one in the morning. We’ll take you out of here to keep you safe. Come on.”
Houston knew that for him to protest would be futile, and in seconds, he was in the police car and on his way to the police station. He rested his head on the back of the seat and thought, At least I won’t get the shit beat out of me in a cell.
_________________
Willard tossed and turned until he wrapped the sheets around him like a shroud. Grunting, the Fisherman sat up in his bed and rested his pounding head in his hands. He stared at the floor, his mind unable to function with the battle of the drums that took place just behind his eyes. Finally, he got up and staggered into the hall.
He stopped beside his mother’s room. The throbbing pressure in his skull was so intense he saw white spots. He cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. She looked tiny and frail, like a small child alone in a king-size bed. Her eyes shone in the moonlight filtering through her window. She was awake. He sighed in relief.
“Ma, I got a headache.”
He slid into bed beside her and rolled over. The warmth of her feeble body comforted him, and he nestled back against her. Within moments, he was asleep.
_________________
Houston perched on the edge of the narrow cot, his head in his hands. His explanation of how he had come to be sitting on a curb in the middle of the night had not gone well. In fact, as he related the story to the cops, even he had a hard time believing it. They interrogated him for two hours before letting him make his phone call. He called Anne Bouchard.
He heard the cell door open and looked into the bright light. A familiar silhouette stood beside a police officer. Houston thought the black figure looked like the Grim Reaper. “Jesus Christ, Mike, you look like shit,” Bouchard said. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Yeah, time for me to get out of here.”
“What’s this crap about some hooker spraying you with Mace?” A smile lurked behind her stern look.
“It’s not crap—it happened.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Hell if I know, Anne. She was nervous, probably scared out of her mind. I told her I wanted to talk to her about Cheryl, and bang, she blasted me with a dose of cayenne pepper. In all my years, I’ve never seen a hooker that nervous.”
“Well, you are looking a little scurvy tonight.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“You can leave whenever you like. I called Bill Dysart, and when he told the arresting officers that you were former PD, they dropped all charges.” She grinned. “Besides, Bill told me that they don’t usually bust drunks anymore; they got bigger fish to fry. They would have let you go in the morning.”
“Life is just full of small miracles, isn’t it?”
Bouchard said, “You know, you might show a little gratitude. I could have left you in here all night.”
“I know. I’m just feeling more than a little stupid right now. She took me out like I was a rookie. One good thing did come out of this, though.”
“And what might that be?”
“The hooker mentioned that she saw a truck and panicked. She also said something about a fisherman.”
“You’re damned lucky those pimps didn’t take a notion to really mess you up.”
“I think they intended to and then decided I was telling them the truth.”
“I warned you about what might happen when you concocted this cockamamie plan . . . you could have gotten yourself killed or beaten a hell of a lot worse than you were.” She held out a hand and when he took it, said, “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel and get some sleep.” She smiled at him. “Not to mention that you need a shower and a change of clothes.”
13
Houston and Bouchard walked into the restaurant and looked for Tracy. They saw her sitting with a woman dressed in a flowered dress that went to her ankles. “That one looks as if she’s lost in the sixties,” he said to Bouchard. Tracy waved to them.
When Houston sat down, Tracy looked at the bruises and abrasions on his face. “What happened to you?”
“It’s a long story . . . I’ll tell you about it later.”
Tracy shrugged, as if to say that if he didn’t want to tell them what happened, that was his business. Rather than belabor the subject, she made introductions. “Lisa Enright, meet Mike Houston and Anne Bouchard.”
Enright reached over and offered her hand to each of them. It was easy to commit her face to memory. Lisa Enright was not an attractive woman. Her sandy-brown hair was long, although he could not tell how long because she was sitting. Houston thought it ended at the small of her back. The hair’s oily sheen gave the impression she had better things to do with her time than to mess with shampoo and conditioner on a daily basis. She reminded him of Mama Cass Elliott, only slimmer and less well kempt. Houston did not think he and Enright were going to be close friends.
Tracy led into the conversation saying, “Mike and Anne are trying to find a missing woman. They think she’s been working as a prostitute.”
Houston said, “Her gra
ndparents asked us to look into her disappearance.”
Enright said, “I’ve been waiting a long time for someone to blow the lid off this.”
“Blow the lid off what?” Houston asked.
She gave him a quizzical look, as if he were a naïve child. “The missing prostitutes. . . . I believe that over the past four years more than fifty women have vanished from the streets of Boston.”
Bouchard looked at Tracy in disbelief. “Fifty women!”
Enright said, “The Boston cops don’t give a damn.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Lisa,” Tracy said, sounding defensive.
Houston stared at Enright while still struggling to grasp what she had told him.
“You believe that more than fifty women have disappeared?” Houston asserted.
“That I’m sure of. There may be more. It’s hard to get the women to talk.”
“I know that for a fact,” Houston grumbled.
Enright gave him a quizzical look.
“I approached a hooker by the Public Garden last night. She maced me.”
“They’ve become pretty selective. In fact, they won’t let a john approach them—they instigate the transaction, or it doesn’t happen.”
“I got the impression that things are more serious than a lot of people think. She called her pimp and one of his cronies.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Enright said. “If the streets were business as usual, the pimps would be going crazy and taking it out on their women, but with this guy . . .”
“What did you say?” Bouchard interrupted her.
“I’m sorry?”
“Just now, you said this guy. Has someone seen something?” Bouchard inquired.
“It seems that there has been a truck seen in the area whenever a woman disappears. After all, their customers are almost exclusively men.” Once again, she gave them a strange look—this time as if they were from another universe.
Bouchard chose to ignore her condescending attitude. “So you don’t know if there is any particular man involved.”
“A single man? Lord, no. How could a single man kidnap over fifty women?”
“How many victims did Bundy have?” Houston interjected.
Enright paused and then said, “I believe in his trial he confessed to thirty.”
“But the investigators believe it could very well be more than one hundred,” he said.
“I see your point.”
Tracy put down her coffee cup and said, “Lisa, maybe you’d better tell us what you’ve got.”
“I’ve been doing a series of articles on prostitution in Boston concentrating on what’s left of the Combat Zone. The first missing woman that I know of was a streetwalker named Victoria. Four years ago, her pimp was Shiloh Baines. I can’t tell you if that’s his legal or street name. Vickie talked with me on several occasions but blew off the last interview. At the time, I thought nothing of it because it was a particularly cold winter and on the day that she missed our meeting there was a blizzard. I tried for a couple of weeks to locate her but no luck. I even went so far as to call Shiloh. You can imagine how far that got me.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t far,” Houston commented, “The last thing most pimps want is their picture on the front page.”
Enright continued her story. “I asked around, but nobody has seen her since, at least not in Boston. Since then a woman has disappeared about every month—some months two or three will vanish. I’m not saying all of them have been harmed, but there’s too many of them for this to be coincidence. When Nancy told me that you guys were looking for a missing woman, I knew I needed to talk to you. I want you guys to talk to one of the women,” Enright said.
Tracy chuckled softly. “Sounds like Mike already tried that. . . . It didn’t work out too good.”
“I’ve had better nights,” Houston said.
Enright showed no surprise. “As I said, you’re lucky that’s all that happened. I can put you in contact with a woman who has seen something. She may have seen our killer . . . and he may have your woman.”
Houston turned to Tracy. “Are you in?”
Tracy nodded. “Try and keep me out of it.”
“We’re going to visit a prostitute using the name of Candy.” Enright sat back and added, “There is a problem though. I don’t think she’ll open up to a man—and I know she won’t to a cop. I think . . .” she looked directly at Bouchard, “. . . Anne and I should go alone.”
Houston looked at Bouchard. “I don’t have a problem with that. I’ve had more than enough discussions with pimps and hookers.”
Bouchard glanced at her watch. “If we’re going to get anything done today, we better run.”
14
“ Who the fuck is Cheryl?”
You would think Candy was sitting on a throne upholstered in the finest silk instead of a stained and tattered chair, Bouchard thought as she studied the emaciated prostitute. Her slouched shoulders did not go with her straight back. Something else was incongruous—the necklace gleaming on Candy’s thin and wrinkled neck. The expensive, understated design spoke of good taste—not what you would expect on a woman who sold herself for drug money. Bouchard wondered what the story was behind this woman and her current lifestyle.
Candy stared back at her, eyes blank, and Bouchard answered the dull gaze with a soft smile. “When was the last time you saw Cheryl?” She shifted slightly on the worn sofa’s edge to avoid contact with fabric so stained it was reminiscent of blood splatter at a crime scene. Her first reaction was alarm, then she pushed her revulsion away. She had been educated enough to know the blemishes on the couch presented no threat. Still she wondered what other contaminants the fabric might harbor.
Candy pounded her hand on the chair’s arm. “Are both of you deaf or something? I told you I don’t know who the hell she is.” Candy blew a cloud of smoke directly at them. She tugged at the sleeve of her sweater—it was inappropriate attire for such a warm day. She was most likely trying to hide track marks on her arms. On the other hand, she might be a cutter, which is common for women with borderline personality disorder or some form of it.
Bouchard shuddered. Her best friend in college had been a cutter, and no matter how hot the day, she wore long sleeves to hide the pale scars on her arms.
Bouchard quietly studied Candy. The prostitute looked as if she were hours away from a rendezvous with the local undertaker. She pushed these thoughts aside, leaned forward, and thrust a snapshot inches from Candy’s eyes. Candy nonchalantly exhaled smoke into her face, further irritating her dry and itchy eyes. Bouchard held her ground; the photo remained poised before Candy.
Candy took the photo.
Bouchard noted Candy’s fingers shook as she struggled to grip the photo. She is strung out—probably needs a fix.
Candy ignored the attention Bouchard gave to her trembling hands and glanced at the photo, giving it no more attention than she might a spider. Then, almost as nonchalantly, she tossed it onto the nearby coffee table. The picture fell in the middle of one of the dishes coated with dried, smelly food. “Oh, her . . .”
“So you do know her. When was the last time you saw her?” Bouchard fought to quell her impatience. She was determined not to let her irritation show; she needed what this woman knew. Bouchard reached out and touched Candy’s bony hand.
Suspicious of Bouchard’s gesture of support, Candy snatched her hand away and blew more smoke into Bouchard’s face.
Bouchard refused to react to the rebuke and reached for the photograph. She placed it back in Candy’s hand.
Like a recalcitrant child, Candy bent her head to study the photo. Bouchard watched her face closely, ignoring the sores and ruined skin. Candy’s jaw tightened before she spoke. After several tension-filled moments, Candy finally said in a muted voice, “That’s Cheri.”
“And do you know the man?” Bouchard asked.
“Melvin Del Vecchio,” Candy seemed to spit rather than speak his name.
Bouchard sat backward, her clothing stuck as she slid across the surface of the couch. She decided she was going to have to buy new pants after this visit. Then her police training took command of her.
“What can you tell us about him?” Bouchard realized that she was falling into interrogator mode and came across as if she were interviewing a suspected murderer. Enright nudged her and flashed a look, warning her to soften up. Bouchard quickly returned her focus to Candy and decided to try another approach. While Candy’s language might be coarse, she might respond to softness and sensitivity. Anne believed that no woman started out to be a hooker. Turning to the streets was usually their only recourse in dealing with circumstances beyond their control. She would love to know what event or events had propelled Candy into a lifestyle that was obviously killing her. However, she knew this was not the time to answer those questions. She forced herself to stay on task, hoping to find the answers she needed. She did, however, pledge not to forget one lesson she had learned, though not as a member of the BPD: no matter what Candy did for a livelihood, she was still a person with a heart and feelings. All she had to do was find a way to reach them.
Candy picked the picture up again, gave it another cursory glance, and then flipped it onto the coffee table and placed a nicotine-stained finger on Del Vecchio’s image. “Now there’s one useless piece of shit if ever there was one.” She shook her head, paused, and then shook it again.
“Okay, all that aside,” Enright interrupted, in a soft, compassionate tone, “when was the last time you saw Cheri?”
“Must be a month or more,” Candy said. “Say, did she finally get the balls to go to the Big Apple? I’ve heard you can make some real money working Times Square.”
The Fisherman Page 8
