by Elaine Viets
Phil drove past a boarded-up funeral home with a FOR SALE sign. “Must be a good neighborhood if the funeral home is out of business,” Helen said.
“It’s a bad neighborhood,” Phil said. “People get shot, mugged and killed here. I wouldn’t walk down these streets after dark. That funeral home used to be family owned. It was bought out by a big chain.”
“I thought there were runaway shelters around here,” Helen said.
“There are,” Phil said. “Those juvie hookers may have stayed at a shelter when they first hit town. But some runaways don’t like the shelter’s rules. The good ones insist on no drugs, no smoking and no booze. The kids have to go to school, do their homework, go to counseling sessions, avoid gang clothes and weapons. They’re kicked out if they don’t abide by the rules. That’s one shelter there.”
He pointed to a windowless stucco building, white as a bleached skull and surrounded by a spiked iron fence.
“Not very friendly-looking,” Helen said.
“It’s not supposed to look friendly,” he said. “It’s a refuge for kids in trouble. The shelters hope the runaways will get off the bus and head there for help. Some will make a decent life for themselves. Others can’t follow the rules and land back on the streets. Around here, there are too many ways to make easy money. They can sell themselves, like those girls.” He nodded toward the salacious schoolgirl and the teeny-skirted Tila.
“Do you think Phoebe went to a shelter?” Helen asked.
“Maybe. There’s no way I can find out,” Phil said. “Most shelters aren’t police- or PI-friendly. They refuse to say if someone is staying there. I tracked a guy wanted for murder to one shelter. He was nineteen—a year over the cutoff age to stay there. I saw him go inside, but the shelter refused to admit he was there. I couldn’t get in. But I can go to the places that attract runaways.”
He drove past an adult bookstore and turned down a potholed alley. Behind the bookstore was a big parking lot and a boxlike photo studio painted dusty red. AWESOME ART PHOTO MODELS! PASSPORT AND PORTFOLIO PICTURES! a faded sign proclaimed. A yellowing notice in the window said, NUDE MODEL WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. ASK FOR AL.
“Runaways can get quick cash posing for so-called art photos,” Phil said, as he pulled into the parking lot.
“That looks like my next job.” Helen opened the Jeep’s door.
“What are you doing?” Phil said.
“Al will talk to me before he says anything to you.” Helen hopped out and slammed the door. “Wait here and don’t fuss, or the wedding’s off.”
“Helen, come back!” Phil said.
He’s not bossing me around, Helen thought, as she opened the photo studio door—then wished she hadn’t. The man behind the cluttered desk smoked a cigar that smelled like a trash fire. His thin, pock-marked face seemed to disappear into a nest of red wrinkles above his dingy shirt collar.
“Are you Al?” she said.
Helen guessed the pus-green walls had been painted about the last time Al took a shower. The room stank of cigars and sweat.
“That’s me,” Al said. He tilted his head, and his neck wrinkles moved like an accordion. “What can I do you for?” He grinned as if that was a clever line. Al smiled like a hungry reptile. If Phil hadn’t been outside in the Jeep, Helen would have run.
“Uh, I’d like some portfolio pictures,” Helen said.
“Nudes.” Al grinned that snaky smile.
“Node. I mean, no. I’m an actress.”
“You’re all actresses, baby. Some of you perform standing up, some on your knees and some on your back.”
“I do summer stock,” Helen said. She cursed the quaver in her voice. “I want to see samples of your work.”
“Riiiiight,” Al said, as if he didn’t believe her. “Book is right there. Knock yourself out.”
Helen cleared a pile of girlie magazines off a scummy leatherette couch and sat down gingerly.
The pages in the sample book were stuck together. Helen peeled apart the plastic sleeves and saw the photos of barely dressed young women. Some pouted, some sucked their fingers, and one licked a phallic-looking lollipop. They had names like Kimberlee, Kaylee, and Kellee. They promised to be “open-minded, wild and playful.”
A series of ads for what looked like escort services and strip joints—except they were called “gentlemen’s clubs”—followed the photos. Helen almost dropped the book when she saw a nearly nude Phoebe winking at her. That had to be a mistake. She studied the photo. It was definitely Phoebe with long brown hair, winking over one bare shoulder.
The ad headline said, FOLLOW MY STAR TO KING’S SEXXX. Helen could see a blue star on Phoebe’s right shoulder. Phoebe was photographed from the back, wearing only high heels and a thong no thicker than dental floss.
“Find something you like?” Al took another puff on his smelly cigar. The neck wrinkles contracted.
“How much for this photo?” Helen asked.
“Let’s see—lighting, makeup and studio rental, plus prints—that would run you a thousand dollars. But we could work out a better price if you were nice.”
“I don’t want you to take my photo,” Helen said. “I want to buy this photo.”
“You a muff diver?” Al asked.
“I beg your pardon,” Helen said, and stood up.
“Hey, don’t get huffy on me. If you want the photo for your personal entertainment, it’s fifty bucks. I have to make a copy.”
“Twenty,” Helen said. “I don’t want a copy. I want this ad right here.”
“Twenty-five,” Al countered.
“Sold.” Helen found twenty-five dollars in her purse, threw it on Al’s desk and pulled the ad out of the plastic sleeve.
“Listen, lady, I don’t judge anybody, but if you ever need a real man—”
Helen was out the door before Al could finish. She jumped into the Jeep and said, “Let’s leave, quick.”
“Are you okay?” Phil asked, as he threw the Jeep in reverse.
“At least I can’t die of disgust,” Helen said. “I’ve found something you have to see. Do you want to wait till we get home, or stop somewhere?”
“Let’s get lunch,” Phil said. His dented Jeep rocketed down the alley. He made a dizzying series of turns and they were back on Federal Highway, where Helen felt safer. Phil drove into the tunnel just past Broward Boulevard, then turned in to a restaurant called Dogma.
“What’s this?” Helen asked.
“Possibly the best hot dog stand in South Florida. I thought we could talk here.”
Dogma was devoted to hot dogs, from the plain classic to the Sedona, embellished with spicy salsa, grilled bacon, sliced avocado, sour cream and tomatoes. Most of the dogs were less than five dollars.
“What about the Athens?” Phil said. “That’s a hot dog with cucumbers, olives and feta cheese.”
“I’m not up for cucumbers and hot dogs,” Helen said.
“Maybe a nice, healthy salad?”
“If I want healthy, I’ll go to Whole Foods,” Helen said. “Today, I’m going to the dogs. Let’s mainline nitrates and nitrites. I want the Pitchfork with barbecue sauce, cheese, grilled bacon and grilled onions.”
“I’ll take the classic with raw onions and mustard—and a beer,” Phil said.
The hot dogs were deliciously messy. Helen wolfed hers down in four bites.
“Do you want another?” Phil asked.
“Not if I’m posing nude for Al,” Helen said.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Phil said.
“I am. Let me show you what I found.” She handed Phil a wad of paper napkins and said, “I don’t want any grease on this ad. I just paid twenty-five bucks for it.”
“You bought an ad from a free newspaper?” Phil said.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not on the stands anymore,” Helen said. “Look at the winking girl. That’s a younger Phoebe.”
“I thought she was blond,” Phil said.
“She i
s now, but I’ve seen her roots. Phoebe is really a brunette.”
“A very young brunette,” Phil said. “She was born in 1992.”
“That makes her seventeen now,” Helen said. “How old was she when she worked at King’s strip club?”
“This ad is two years old,” he said, looking at the date at the top of the page. “So she would have been about fifteen.”
“King would still be responsible for having an underage minor working at his club, right?” Helen said.
“I think so,” Phil said. “He might beat the underage rap in court, but it would ruin his entry into Lauderdale society. Someone who exploited young girls wouldn’t be invited to the A-list parties. Those old dowagers would bar the door when he showed up, no matter how fat his charity checks were.”
Helen looked at Phoebe’s nipped-in waist and large breasts—and her enormous feet in those high heels—and felt like someone had stuck a stiletto in her brain. “She’s the blonde who fought with King right before he died. That was her in the blue dress. We’ve got to see Mireya, the photographer’s assistant. She’s in danger.”
“I’ve missed something here,” Phil said. “We were talking about Phoebe.”
“Phoebe’s the killer,” Helen said. “Mireya photographed her pushing the groom into the pool and stomping on his hand.”
“Why didn’t Mireya go to the police?”
“She let King die so she could blackmail Phoebe,” Helen said. “Why else would Mireya give up a good job in this market? What’s she going to live on now? Phoebe is out of work and can’t pay her. If Mireya has been pushing Phoebe for more money, she’s in danger.”
“You’ve just set an Olympic record for jumping to conclusions,” Phil said.
“No!” Helen said. “I’m serious. We have to warn her. I have Mireya’s new address from her neighbor. We have to drive there.”
“Now?” Phil said.
“It’s only two o’clock, and I don’t have her phone number.”
“How do you know the bride didn’t kill King? That was Honey’s white wedding gown in a corner of the photo.”
“The bride didn’t try to frame Miguel Angel for the murder,” Helen said.
“That makes no sense.”
“Humor me,” Helen said.
Chapter 26
“Mireya!” Helen called. “Are you home?”
She knocked loudly on the town house’s red-painted door and rang the bell.
No sound of footsteps. No flick of the mini blinds. Helen wondered if Mireya could hear her over “Stairway to Heaven” blasting from the place next door.
Mireya had moved into a narrow pinkish-beige town house at a development called Three Palms. The entrance was flanked by three royal palm trees, trunks straight as concrete columns. One was alive and lush with greenery. Two were topless trunks, their fronds probably blown away in a hurricane.
“They ought to change the name,” Helen said.
“They could buy two new palm trees,” Phil said, “but it looks like they’re cutting corners.”
0% DOWN! FIRST MONTH FREE! U CAN’T LOSE! screamed a banner strung between two of the dead trees.
“Yep, Palm Beach County is really exclusive,” Helen shouted over the neighbor’s blaring music.
Mireya’s front yard was the size of a bath mat and landscaped with brown pebbles. Her front steps were cracked. A pot of pink impatiens was dying in the searing sun. The crowded parking lot’s flower beds were filled with beer cans and sun-blasted boulders.
Three Palms was near the railroad tracks and the Dixie Highway—not a prestigious location. But Mireya could say she lived in Palm Beach County.
Helen rang the doorbell. Phil beat on the door and kept one eye on his Jeep, parked illegally by the Dumpster.
Small, dented cars were crammed into every spot in the parking lot. Stenciled on the white concrete barriers were the town house numbers. A black Neon with a broken trunk was in spot 117 in front of Mireya’s town house.
“She has to be here,” Helen said. “That’s her car.”
“Maybe,” Phil said. “But these people don’t seem to respect parking rules.” Vehicles were parked haphazardly in the fire zone.
The lot’s exit was partially blocked by a yellow pickup stuffed with a mattress, a table, and a fat plaid couch.
“I’m guessing these are investment properties,” Phil said. “The owners buy them cheap, then rent to anyone who scrapes together enough money to cover the loan payments. The average renter is mid-to-late twenties with an entry-level job. Four to six people are packed into two bedrooms. There’s no homeowners’ association to complain about the noise, the renters or the parking violations.”
Helen pounded on the door again and rang the bell. No answer. Phil joined her. “Mireya!” they screamed. “Are you there?”
Silence. At least from inside Mireya’s town house. Next door, the music was cranked another notch to rap-concert level.
“Now what?” Helen said.
“It’s only three o’clock,” Phil said. “Maybe she’s at work.”
“Her neighbor said she doesn’t need a job anymore,” Helen said. “Mireya struck it rich.”
“The blinds are shut on the front windows,” Phil said. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and tried the front door. “Locked. Let’s go around to the back. Maybe we can see inside.”
“What if the neighbors call the cops?” Helen asked.
“At this place? I could kick in the door and carry out everything she owns, and nobody would notice.”
“Hey, assholes! Watch it!”
Helen and Phil turned and saw a big-bellied guy yelling at three sweating men hauling a huge television. Big Belly’s face was stroke red. “You drop that flat-screen TV, and I’ll kill you,” he screeched.
“How do we know those guys carrying out that monster TV aren’t stealing it?” Phil asked.
Helen nodded at an upstairs window two doors down. A ruffled curtain fluttered slightly. “How do we know whoever is watching behind that curtain isn’t writing down their license plate number—or our description?”
“We don’t,” Phil said. “But if you’re worried, I’ve got just the thing.” He ran back to the Jeep, reached inside and pulled out a clipboard with a yellow legal pad.
“This looks official,” he said. “I can say I’m a city inspector. Nobody ever challenges that excuse.”
“I smell smoke,” Helen said.
Phil sniffed the air. “Barbecue,” he said. “Probably ribs. Let’s go.”
Helen started tiptoeing toward the sidewalk that led around the back.
“Helen!” Phil whispered. “Don’t walk like that. You look like a housebreaker. Act like you live here.”
He walked boldly around the privacy fence, armed only with his confidence and his clipboard. Helen followed. The air was thick with chlorine and coconut oil as they passed the pool. Helen peered through the fence slats. Bikinied bodies were roasting on chaise longues, iPods plugged into their ears. The sun worshipers looked like greased corpses.
A chunky man used a long-handled barbecue fork to poke at a rack of ribs on a grill. He splashed beer on the ribs, then chugged the rest and tossed the bottle on the ground. Phil waved and smiled. The rib poker waved back.
“See? That’s how you do it,” Phil said. “People move in and out of this place every week. He has no idea if we live here or not.”
“You’re good at this,” Helen said. “That makes me nervous.”
“I have to be,” Phil said. “It’s my job.”
Mireya had a small concrete slab behind her town house. More plants roasted in the sun, along with plastic patio furniture. “No curtains on the sliding glass doors,” Helen said, as she stepped around a chair.
“Sliding glass doors on the ground floor. The burglar’s friend.” Phil used his handkerchief to tug on the door handle. It slid open. “Careful,” he said. “Try not to touch anything.”
“Mireya!” he called once m
ore, but there was no sound. The walls seemed to throb with the neighbor’s music.
“Brrr. It’s cold in here,” Helen said, when she stepped inside. Her heart was pounding. She was now officially guilty of trespassing. “Mireya keeps the air conditioner high. Was this place ransacked, or is she just moving in?”
“Hard to tell,” Phil said. “It’s a mess.”
The living room was a maze of upended cardboard boxes. Towels, clothes and kitchenware spilled out of them. A fat brown recliner lay on its side next to a smashed end table.
“I don’t like this,” Helen said.
“The kitchen was definitely ransacked,” Phil said.
Broken cups and glassware were thrown on the beige kitchen tile. Sugar and flour were dumped on the floor, and cooking oil poured over the white mounds. The refrigerator door hung open, and an overturned milk jug dripped on the floor. The stink of spoiled milk was overpowering.
Phil used the handkerchief to flip on the kitchen light. A fat roach scuttled away.
“Ohmigod, is that blood dripping off the counter?” Helen said, her voice shaky.
Phil stuck his finger in the red goo, tasted it, and said, “Ketchup. Brooks, I think.”
“How do you know?” Helen asked.
He pointed to an overturned Brooks ketchup bottle in the corner. Phil wiped away the spot of ketchup he’d touched with a dishtowel on the counter. “Don’t go in any farther. We’ll leave footprints in this mess.”
“I hope Mireya wasn’t hurt,” Helen said.
“Maybe she spent the night with friends, and someone broke in,” Phil said, but Helen could tell he didn’t believe that. “Let’s check the rooms upstairs.”
They sprinted up a short flight of steps to a bathroom. Phil turned on the bathroom light with his handkerchief.
Helen screamed. “That’s blood in the sink,” she said. “Real blood. That’s not ketchup.”
Red-black lines had dripped and dried on the blue sink. A bloody towel had been dropped on the toilet lid. A large red shoe print was stamped in the pale throw rug. There were more blood spots on the tile.
“Looks like someone tried to wash up,” Phil said. “Don’t come in.”
Helen backed away from the bathroom door, hoping she wouldn’t throw up. “Hurry, Phil. We have to get out of here. Something is wrong.”
