“And if you get to bed before midnight, I’ll be open for business.”
“Expect a customer.”
Curvature appeared on Alyssa’s chin.
* * *
Eight minutes later, the detective stood outside his daughter’s room and knocked upon her flimsy door.
A small throat was cleared. “Yes?”
“Do you want to talk?”
Bettinger heard a sniffle rather than a reply. Karen cried far less often than did most girls her age, and the sound was significant.
“May I come in?”
Silence followed his inquiry.
“Karen?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to. But you need to pay your rent.”
Again, the girl sniffled. “What?”
“I usually get a hug when I come home from work. Sometimes, after dinner or when I’m helping you with a project. I didn’t get one today and you owe me.”
Karen cleared her throat. “Okay.”
Bettinger gripped the doorknob, which rocked in its housing, but did not turn. “Want me to pick the lock?” he inquired. “I’ve got tools.”
“I’ll get it.”
Footfalls approached, and a button clicked. As the little walker retreated, the detective nudged the door open.
Karen sat at the head of her bed, looking down at her folded legs, which were covered by a wool blanket. The girl’s lean torso was lost inside her father’s sweatshirt, one of several hand-me-downs that she preferred to her pajamas.
Bettinger entered, shut the door, and padded across the carpet to Karen, whose large eyes were red and dripping. A lump materialized in the detective’s stomach as he sat beside his daughter.
Bettinger opened his arms. “Time to pay up.”
Karen leaned into her father, mashing her face against his chest. Two small limbs encircled his back.
Today was the beginning of the girl’s second week in Stonesburg Junior High, and Bettinger knew that whatever was upsetting her had occurred in that place. It was a reputable public school, but its racial demographic looked like something that had been washed in bleach.
“If you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s okay,” the detective said as his daughter’s tears warmed his sweater. “I just need to ask you two things. Did anybody hurt you?”
The wet mush that pressed against his chest slid left and right, and his apprehensions diminished.
“Did anybody threaten to hurt you?”
Again, the girl shook her head.
“Okay.” The detective patted his daughter’s narrow back and placed a kiss upon the perfect part that lay directly between her pigtails. More than likely, her unhappiness was caused by some hurtful words and could be discussed whenever she was ready to have a conversation. “Do you want me to tuck you in?”
Karen clutched her father like a little wrestler, and for a moment, Bettinger feared that she might smother herself.
“It was just boys talking.” The girl sniffled. “That’s all.”
Bettinger did not know what this meant. “Were they calling you names? Things like that?”
“No.” Karen released her father and sat upright, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying. They weren’t even talking to me.”
“What were they saying?”
“I can’t.” The girl shook her head back and forth. “I can’t say it.”
“What kinds of things?”
Karen stared at the blanket that covered her folded legs. “Dirty.”
“Sexual?” This was a word that Bettinger could not recall using in front of his daughter, who was twelve.
Karen nodded her head. “They were talking about that stuff at lunch. They were sitting behind me and—and—and talking real loud about the kinds of things that black girls do.”
Fury paralyzed the detective, and for a moment, he imagined himself slapping the faces of little blond rednecks. Relocating his anger to a back alley, he took his daughter’s hands and cleared his throat. “Can you sit somewhere else at lunch? Away from these boys?”
“Yeah. It’s not assigned seats.”
“Then sit somewhere else. And if they follow you around—talking like that—let me know.” Again, Bettinger imagined violence.
“Okay.”
The detective hugged his daughter, trying not to think of Elaine James’s corpse. “Should I shoot them?”
“Not yet.”
XII
Reading Her Insides
“Bettinger!” The name rebounded throughout the white pillbox and landed inside of an uncommonly dark ear.
Breathing steam and wearing a parka over his blazer, the detective from Arizona rose from his desk, traversed the precinct, and carried a steel chair across the dais to the inspector’s desk.
Zwolinski pointed a thick finger at Dominic, who sat on the far side of the enclosure. “Corporal Williams doesn’t look delighted.”
“He isn’t.” Bettinger winced when his buttocks struck cold metal.
“Keep him that way.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Is the Elaine James case worth a big chunk of police time?”
“It is.”
“Where are you?”
“We’ve got an autopsy at eleven, and we’re talking to hookers, since she was one.”
Thick hands rubbed a purple bruise that the inspector had earned earlier that morning in a boxing match. “The file said she was a parasite.”
“She collected checks, but that was just gravy. The woman has a condominium.”
“Any ideas on the necrophile?”
“No. But he manufactures his own evidence.”
Zwolinski’s eyebrows climbed toward his silver pelt. “How so?”
“There was a camera at the scene.”
“I like what’s fallin’ out of your mouth.”
The boss dismissed the detective, gesturing with a hand that had knocked two teeth out of another man’s face earlier that morning.
* * *
Light glared on the stainless-steel blades of the enterotome that cut across the corpse’s esophagus and duodenum. A moment later, Meredith Wong extracted a purplish-red sack from between the severed pipes, placed it in a kidney-shaped pan, and claimed a scalpel.
Bettinger monitored the autopsy, flanked by Dominic, who typed text messages with thumbs that seemed too large for grammar.
Meredith Wong punctured the stomach wall, inserted the bottom blade of the enterotome into the incision, and cut across tissue that squeaked like rubber. A terrible smell like cheese and excrement spilled from the opening, and the detective pulled on a doctor’s mask. Grimacing, the big fellow withdrew to the far wall.
The coroner slowly exposed the inside of the stomach, which looked like a dirty diaper.
“What’s that?” inquired Bettinger, pointing at something that resembled an embryo.
Employing toothed forceps, Meredith Wong secured the item and raised it from the mire. Close inspection revealed it to be a dark brown cashew.
“Are there more?” inquired the detective.
The coroner searched the inside of the stomach. “There’s this,” she said as she pulled out another object. Gripped by the teeth of the forceps was a crinkled chili pepper.
“Looks like Szechuan.”
The Asian woman eyed the black man.
“My wife’s favorite.”
“Wife?” Dominic looked up from his phone. “There’s a woman who didn’t laugh or shoot when you proposed?”
Bettinger inspected the cashew and the chili pepper. “How long would these stay in her stomach before descending? Two hours?”
“Peppers and nuts are hard to digest,” Meredith Wong said, “especially when they’re not chewed enough, so it’s—”
“She was a swallower,” remarked Dominic.
“Muzzle that.” The detective returned his attention to the coroner. “What’s the longest it might’ve been—between her
last meal and the time of death? Three hours?”
“Could be that long. Probably less.”
Bettinger faced his partner. “Pull up a list of every Chinese restaurant that’s three miles or less from the subject’s apartment. And put the Szechuan places on top.”
Big thumbs clicked tiny keys, and a moment later, Dominic lifted his gaze. “There a difference between Szechuan with a z and Sichuan with a i?”
“It’s like Hanukkah and Chanukah.” The detective enunciated the latter word with a guttural inflection.
“Don’t get Jewish.” The big fellow saw something on his cell phone. “There’s only one Sichuan near her apartment—Sichuan Dragon.”
“That’s where we’re having lunch.”
“I prefer sushi.”
The remainder of the autopsy was fruitless, and shortly after twelve, both policemen exited the hospital and returned to the silver car. Ten minutes later, they were on Summer Drive, driving toward the Chinese restaurant.
The two-way console on the dashboard squawked, garnering Bettinger’s attention.
Dominic flicked his hand dismissively. “Don’t pick it up.”
“It’s a police radio.”
“Those calls ain’t for guys like us.”
Bettinger plucked the receiver from the two-way unit and thumbed the talk bar. “Detective Bettinger and Corporal Williams. Copy.”
The device emitted a series of hisses and crackles.
“Where are you?” asked a sexless voice. “Over.”
“We’re busy,” replied Dominic.
Bettinger thumbed the talk bar. “We’re on Summer and Twentieth. Over.”
“Proceed to five forty-three Point Street, apartment sixteen ten. There’s a civil disturbance. Do you copy?”
“We copy. What’s the nature of the disturbance? Over.”
“Domestic violence. Over.”
“Who lives at this address? Over.”
“It’s unclear who lives there. Over.”
“We’re on our way. Over and out.”
Bettinger clipped the receiver to the console.
Dominic seized the two-way unit, tore it from the dashboard, and tossed it into the rear of the car.
“Five forty-three Point Street,” said the detective.
“I fuckin’ heard.”
“Apartment sixteen ten.”
Unable to look at his passenger, the bandaged, bull-nosed corporal tightened his fists upon the wheel. “You tryin’ to get me to take a swing at you? Turn my demotion into a suspension?”
“Who knows why I do anything?”
“Well I ain’t gonna throw no fists at you.”
Bettinger was not sure if the man was implying some subtler form of retaliation, but he let the comment sail.
XIII
Crabhead
The vehicle sped west, and gradually, the surrounding parks, retail stores, and brownstones were replaced by rows of tall tenement buildings. Peopling the bleak sidewalks of this area were a few shambling oldsters and some pale skinheads who wore big jackets over their Hitler tattoos. On the corner of Tenth and Charles, a white teenager whose pierced face looked like a shrapnel museum eyeballed the black policemen, walked to the edge of the road, and scratched his underarms, chattering like a monkey. His contemporaries on the far side of the street applauded his wit.
Dominic drove past the idiot, turned onto a narrow road, and parked alongside the curb. Together, the pair exited the car and walked west.
Five youths on skateboards zoomed around the front courtyard of a gray project building that wore the number 543. The top two stories of the twenty-story structure were illuminated by sunlight, but most of it was in shadow.
“Cops,” announced a light-skinned black kid who wore a gold sweat suit and had elaborately braided hair.
Two of the youths rocketed away.
Bettinger and Dominic entered the courtyard, and the remaining skateboarders kept their distance. Far-off shouts continued to announce the presence of law enforcers.
The detective gauged the building as he walked across the concrete. Its front door was a combination of bulletproof glass and iron bars, and the intercom panel looked like it had been struck by a meteor.
Pausing, Bettinger eyed the light-skinned black kid. “You seem knowledgeable.”
The youth shook his elaborate braids as he skated. “I ain’t.”
“Come here.”
“I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Ever heard of a place called school?” asked Dominic.
“Never.”
“Well you s’posed to be in it right now—learnin’ how to be better than this.”
“I learn plenty right here.” The kid zoomed around the policemen. “The courtyard’s educational.”
“What’s your name?” asked Bettinger, monitoring the satellite.
“Let me go ask my momma.”
The light-skinned skateboarder veered away from his inquisitors.
“If you make me come get you,” Dominic warned, “you ain’t gonna be talkin’ clever.”
The youth skidded to a halt. “Why you need my name? I didn’t do nothin’.”
Bettinger thought that the kid’s ornate braids had a crustaceous appearance. “We’ll call you Crabhead until you give us something better.”
“The fuck you will, nigga.”
Dominic launched himself at the youth, seized his left wrist, and twisted it around until the kid dropped to his knees.
“Don’t talk that way to policemen!”
“Okay! I won’t—I w—”
“Not fuckin’ ever.”
“I hear you, nigga, I hear you!” The youth’s bravado was gone. Suddenly, he was a skinny kid at the mercy of a big adult who could break his limbs and toss him in a place where people studied geometry. “Now—now—now let go. Please.”
Dominic released the kid and kicked his skateboard across the courtyard. “Stand up.”
The youth rose to his feet, shaking his sore arm as if it were a damp noodle. “My name’s Dwayne.”
“It’s Crabhead.”
Bettinger joined the duo and gestured to the building. “We need to get to apartment sixteen ten.”
“Okay.” The youth nodded his head. “I’ll take you there.”
The three of them walked toward the entrance.
Rubbing his arm, Crabhead eyed his jettisoned skateboard, which was lying on its back beside a far-off bench. “Can I grab it so nobody’ll take it?”
“Nobody’ll take it.” Dominic pointed at a white teenager who stood near the bench. “Watch Crabhead’s board. If it gets taken, you and me’ll have a discussion.”
“A’ight,” said the skinny fellow whose bereft gums indicated that he had an addiction to crystal meth. “I’ll watch.”
Crabhead slotted a key into a lock that was surrounded by iron bars, twisted his hand, and leaned forward, but the door did not move. Clenching his jaw, he slammed a shoulder into the reinforced barrier. Hinges groaned, and reluctantly, the door swung wide.
“Gets stuck in winter.”
Led by the young guide, the policemen entered the building. Very little sunlight penetrated the bluish-gray lobby, which had an uninhabited security booth and the incomplete remains of a dozen plastic chairs, the limbs of which were still bolted to the floor. Three fluorescent bulbs flickered like wartime telegraphs as Crabhead brought his guests to the elevator bank.
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “These shits work?”
“Go up to twelve.” The youth hammered a steel button with his fist. “We can ride up there and walk the rest.”
Gears groaned within the shaft, and the big fellow withdrew his cell phone.
“That the Phantom Sleek?” asked Crabhead.
“Yeah.” Dominic’s thumbs became insects.
“Got sixty-four for videos and shit?”
“Yeah.”
The exoskeleton nodded. “Gotta get one of those.”
Bettinger wondered if Crabhead
even knew the name of the state capital.
Something clanked within the shaft, and the door opened, revealing two bearded white guys whose jittery red eyes were shaded by baseball caps. The smell of marijuana wafted from the pair as they walked into the lobby.
Crabhead led the policemen into the pale green lift and fingered the eroded button that sat above the one for the eleventh floor.
Something clanked, and the door closed. The elevator shuddered, lifting off like a rocket.
“You know who lives in apartment sixteen ten?” asked Bettinger.
“Nah.” The crustacean shimmied. “Ain’t hardly been up there.”
A metallic screech echoed inside the shaft, and the elevator lurched to a stop. The door groaned, sliding into the wall.
Crabhead exited, followed by Dominic (who was still typing on his cell phone) and Bettinger. The magenta hallway in which they stood looked like an infection and smelled like a combination of fungus and old sex.
Yawning, the youth brought the policemen to the emergency exit and slapped the push bar, revealing a dimly lighted stairwell. Heavy footfalls echoed on another level.
Bettinger and Crabhead walked onto the landing, followed by Dominic, who was pocketing his cell phone. As the trio climbed toward the next level, the detective noted myriad graffiti tags and a vivid illustration of a black horse astride a white woman, whose bulging eyes, ecstatic hair, and curled toes indicated that she was in an orgasmic situation.
“Nigga’s talented,” observed the youth.
Bettinger was not sure if Crabhead was referring to the artist or the stallion.
The group passed doors that were numbered 14 and 15 and continued up the stairwell. Something heavy thudded, shaking the walls.
Bettinger crossed the landing, flung the door, and looked up the hallway, which was empty. Returning his attention to the youth, he said, “Go back down.”
“I wanna watch.”
“Go.”
A woman yelled.
Dominic grabbed Crabhead’s left shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him toward the stairs. “Scamper.”
XIV
You Earned This
The policemen hastened up the hallway, which was infected with the same viral magenta that had overtaken the twelfth floor.
A woman yelled “You earned this!” and a child that was either a girl or a prepubescent boy shrieked.
Mean Business on North Ganson Street Page 6
