Her mouth locked onto me again. I went hard in her mouth. She rubbed her thighs together. My hand stroked her butt. Her thighs opened. I stroked my fingers against the back of her knees. A liquid drop fell into my hand. I felt the pinpricks of pressure in my balls, tightening into a thick mass. I hooked my hand around the front of her thigh, pulling her toward me. She wouldn't move, sucking harder now. Strega flashed into my mind - Strega and her witch games. I jerked her thigh hard, trying to pull her face off me. It was rigid as a cell bar.
"Belle," I whispered. "Come here."
She didn't move. I cracked her hard against the same cheek I'd hit before. She made a humming noise but stayed where she was. I hit her twice more, feeling the sting in my palm, wondering what she felt.
Her mouth came off my cock. She crawled forward on the bed, throwing a leg over me. She pushed her butt between my legs until I was smoothly inside her, moved to her knees, straddling my body, her back to me.
"Come on!" she said, her voice hard, bucking until we both got there.
37
She slept then. On her stomach, one arm flung across my chest. I slipped under it, found the bathroom. It was small-scale, like the kitchen. Cheap black-and-white tile covered the floor and ran halfway up the wall from the tub. The hot water came up right away; the pressure was good that time of night. I took a quick shower, used some of her Brand-X shampoo, toweled myself off. The little medicine cabinet was empty except for a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. A plastic hairbrush and a bottle of green mouthwash stood on the sink. I wondered where she kept all her makeup . . . maybe on the dressing table near her bed.
The bathroom was full of steam, the mirror cloudy. I wiped it off, looked at my face. Whatever she wanted, she hadn't seen it there.
My foot hit something under the sink. A black metal box with a latch on the front, carry-handle on top. I popped it open. Sterile bandages, individually wrapped. A roll of gauze. Elastic tape. Three scalpels with different-sized blades. A pair of surgical scissors. A bottle of iodine. Two more of sulfa powder. A pair of matching plastic vials, both full, unlabeled. I opened them. Penicillin. Percodan. There was no tag on the metal box, but I knew what it was. Bulletwound kit.
The refrigerator had a half-empty carton of milk, a lump of cream cheese, and a head of lettuce under a plastic wrap. I found some ice cubes, filled a glass, let it get cold while I got dressed.
I sipped the water in the easy chair near her bed, smoking, trying to think it through. A Ghost Van in my mind.
Belle rolled over on her side as her eyes came open. "This time you guarded me," she said.
"I've got to go," I told her.
"Let me take a shower first." She didn't wait for an answer, shoving past me to the bathroom. It was still dark outside - my watch said it was almost four-thirty.
She came out of the bathroom brushing her hair, her body gleaming wet.
"Why do you have to go?" she wanted to know, stepping close to where I was sitting.
"There's something I have to take care of."
"What's her name?" she asked, a mock-growl in her voice.
"Pansy."
She pulled back. "You better be kidding."
"Pansy's a dog. My dog."
She giggled. "You have a dog named Pansy? You tie ribbons in her hair and all that?"
"She's about your size."
"I'd like to see that."
"You will."
"Can I come with you?"
"Not this time," I said, getting to my feet.
She put her arms around my neck, pushing her nose so close to mine that my eyes went out of focus. "You'll be back here tonight?"
"I thought you had to work."
"I'll call in sick. Most of the girls do that after their night off - it's no big deal."
"Okay," I said, running my hands down her smooth back to the swelling of her rear.
"What are you thinking?"
"I was thinking if I pressed a quarter against your back and let it go it would fly off your ass like it was a ski slope."
She slipped her hand between us, patting my crotch. "You got a quarter in there someplace?"
"No," I said, pushing gently against her. "I have to go - no joke."
She put her hand in mine, walking me toward her door. "Burke, you know when you didn't want to taste me? You said that wasn't you, right?"
I made a yes noise, walking with her.
"That's okay. You can be you. It's okay that I keep dancing?"
"If that's what you want to do."
"I'm telling the truth now, Burke. I'm going to love you. And you're going to love me too, when you see how I am. But I have to be me while I do it, understand?"
"I'm not arguing with you, Belle."
She put her mouth on my ear, whispering in that little-girl breathy voice, holding my hand tight. "I'm me. You don't change for me - I don't change for you. But I wouldn't let you dance."
"That means what?"
Her voice was pure and sad in my ear. "If Pansy's a dog, like you said, I'm going to pat her. If she's a woman, I'll kill her."
She kissed me on the cheek, pushed me away, stood to the side while I stepped out the door.
I looked back at the cottage as I climbed into my car. It was dark.
38
The Plymouth tracked its way back to the office, its monster motor barely turning over. The all-news station was talking about Kuwaiti ships flying the American flag in the Persian Gulf, minesweepers guarding the point. I flipped to the oldies station. Screamin' Jay Hawkins. "I Put a Spell on You." Growling his love-threats to his woman and to the world.
I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours
Right now.
Belle would know he was telling the truth.
Most of the traffic was trucks, highballing it toward the city. A customized van passed on my right. Big glass doors cut into the side, a plastic bubble on its roof. As it went by, I saw a narrow metal ladder running from the bumper up to the roof. A mural was painted on the back - some religious scene.
I lit a smoke. The van I was looking for was a custom job too. I knew that meant something, but I couldn't lock in on it. It would come.
If Marques was right, the van had been working for a few weeks now. Time enough for the police to be on the job. I flicked my cigarette out the window, wondering if McGowan was working nights.
Bob Seger came through the radio. "Still the Same." Motor City blues. Somebody once said it was about a guy catching up with his old girlfriend, but it never sounded like that to me.
It sounded like a kid catching up with his father.
39
I let Pansy out to her roof. Picked up the phone on my desk, checked for hippies. All quiet. I dialed a number.
"Runaway Squad, Officer Thompson speaking." A young woman's voice.
"Is McGowan around?"
"Hold on."
I lit a smoke, waiting. Any other detective bureau in the city, they ask you who's calling. The Runaway Squad knows most of the callers won't give their names.
"McGowan," said the voice on the phone. The same hard-sweet voice pimps use, but McGowan did it different, giving you your choice.
"It's Burke. We're working the same case. Got a few minutes to meet with me?"
"I'm off at eight. Breakfast at Dino's? Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty?"
"I'll be there," I told him, and put down the phone. Pansy ambled in, rested her head in my lap. I patted her. "You're always glad to see me, aren't you, girl?"
She didn't answer me.
I pushed her head off my lap, helped myself to a drink of ice water from the refrigerator. I took out two hard-boiled eggs, cracked them against the wall, peeled off the shells.
"Wake me in an hour," I told Pansy, handing her the eggs.
I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the mess she made.
40
When I opened my eyes, it was seven-thirty. I took another shower, changed my clothes: I let Pansy out again, watching her
run around while I took a deep slug of Pepto-Bismol. Eating at Dino's on an empty stomach was dangerous.
I drove north on the West Side Highway, moving against the snarled rush-hour traffic. Dino's was on Twelfth Avenue, about ten blocks south of Times Square. Yuppies in New York are heavy into diner food now, but Dino's wasn't going to make the list.
McGowan's unmarked cruiser was parked right out front, empty slots on either side. I pulled in, not wasting my time trying to spot him through the greasy windows.
He was sitting in a booth near the back corner, hat tipped back on his long Irish face, cigar in his mouth. Wearing a dark suit, a shirt that had once been white, a blue tie that had never been silk. I sat across from him, my back to the door. We'd known each other a long time.
He shook his head sharply before I could open my mouth, tilting his chin up. Somebody coming.
It was only three hours into her shift, but the waitress was already tired, her broad face lined with strain. Still, she had a smile for McGowan. They all did.
"Good morning, lovely Belinda," he greeted her. "How's the play coming?"
"It comes about like I do, McGowan. Not too often."
"Nothing good comes easy, my little darling," he said, turning aside gloom like a bullfighter. He took one of her hands, holding it in his, patting her.
"Belinda, it was your choice. A lovely young girl like you, the boys would be all over you and they had a chance. But it's not the life of a housewife for my girl, is it now? Your play will come. Your day will come."
"Ah, McGowan . . ." she said, trying to sneer at his blarney. But the smile came out, like they both knew it would.
"Give me two of your finest eggs, sunny-side up. Bacon, toast, and some Sanka, will you, girl?"
She wrote it down, turned to me.
"Two eggs, fried over hard, break the yolks. Ham, rye toast, apple juice. Burn everything."
"You got it," the waitress said, moving away, the bounce back in her walk.
McGowan puffed on his cigar, knowing we wouldn't talk until the food came.
"How's Max?"
"The same."
"I heard he was a proud papa."
"That's on the street?"
"Sure," he said, watching me closely. "Any problem with it?"
I shrugged. No point asking McGowan where he got it - maybe from one of the little girls he brought to Lily's program, maybe . . .
The food came and we ate.
It didn't take either of us long. Swallowing it wasn't as bad as looking at it. The Senator's Motto.
Belinda cleared our plates. McGowan settled down over his second cup of Sanka, relighting his mangy cigar.
"So?"
"The Ghost Van - you know it?"
"Everybody knows it."
"Any more than what's been in the papers?"
"A bit. What's your interest?"
"Some people want me to find it."
"And take it off the street?"
"It's just an investigation. The people who want me to do this job don't have anything personal at stake. For all they care, I find it, I could call the cops."
McGowan leaned across the table, his Irish blues going cop-hard. "It's personal to me, Burke. The swine shot one of my girls."
"When?"
"The second shooting. Little girl named Darla James. Fifteen years old, and on the stroll for the last two. I was close to taking her off the track. Real close, Burke. They put two into her chest at twenty feet - she never had a prayer."
I lit a smoke, watching his face. McGowan had been working the cesspool for twenty years and he'd never fired his gun. He won some and he lost a hell of a lot more, but he always kept coming. He played the game square, and we all respected him.
"You want me out of it - I'm out of it," I told him.
"I want you in it, pal. In fact, I was going to put it out on the wire last week for you to come around. These are bad, bad people, Burke."
"How do you make it?"
He puffed on the cigar, his eyes still hard, but not looking my way. "Has to be a vigilante trip. One of those sicko cults. They're shooting the poor little girls to fight the devil. Or maybe they're sacrificing bodies to Satan. It all comes out the same."
"You sure?"
"I'm not sure of anything. I'll tell you what we have - it's precious little enough."
I kept my hands on the table, where he could see them. McGowan would know I don't write things down, but he looked upset enough to forget.
"Tell me," I said.
"There's been five girls shot, not the three the papers reported. And two snatched - not just the one everybody knows about. Ballistics says they were all shot with the same piece. Military hardware, probably an M-16, or one of those Russian jobs. High-speed ammo. Ballistics says the slugs were twenty-two-caliber."
"They mean 5.56-millimeter. About the same thing."
"Whatever," McGowan snarled. He wasn't a forensics man. "The girls were all torn up inside - ripped to pieces. Dead before they hit the ground."
'You ever find either of the girls who were snatched?''
"Not a trace."
"Were all the girls underage?"
"Either that or they looked it."
"You sure it's random?"
"We thought of that. Questioned half the pimps in Times Square. We can't make a connection."
"Who's 'we'? The Commissioner got a task force working on this?"
McGowan's laugh was too ugly to be cynical. "Task force? Sure, and why would they be doing that? It's not like it was citizens getting killed."
I sipped my apple juice, thinking out loud to draw him in. "Seems like a strange piece to use . . ."
McGowan's eyes snapped into focus. "Why?"
"It's not an assassin's weapon. Doesn't have the shock power of a heavier slug. That high speed's a waste at such close range. The bullets fly so fast that they tumble around as soon as they hit something. That's why the girls were so torn up inside. And it makes a hell of a bang - real hard to silence."
I took another drag, thinking it through. I wasn't playing with McGowan: it really didn't make sense. "Automatics jam," I told him. "You know that - that's why they don't let you guys carry the nine-millimeters you want. So why risk an automatic when you're only going to fire off a couple of shots? And if it was so random, why didn't they just sweep the street? With an M-16, they could chop down a dozen girls just as easy as one. You check with ATF?"
"They're too busy looking for Uzis. The guy I talked with said what you said. Doesn't even have to be a military piece - there's all kinds of semi-auto stuff floating around – AK-47s, AR-15s. Takes ten minutes to convert them to full auto, he said."
"It's still the wrong gun for killing at close range. A heavier piece, even if you hit someone in the arm, you'd blow it right off. They'd be dead before the ambulance got there."
"Maybe it's all they have?"
"Doesn't add up. This is an expensive deal, McGowan. And for what?"
His honey voice turned sour. "Couple of bullets and gas money - it don't sound so expensive to me."
'You ever find the van?"
"No. So?"
"So they didn't dump it after the shootings. So they have to have a place to stash it. They got to have at least a driver, a hooter, and another guy to fling open the doors. And the snatch . . . they had a switch-car for that, right?"
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Out there," I said, pointing vaguely out the greasy window.
"Yeah. We found the switch-car. Took it apart, piece by piece. We got some decent prints, but no match."
"Anything else?"
"There's no pattern. No thread. The girls didn't know each other. Two were on the runaway list, but that doesn't mean anything. Half the little hookers out there were on the list one time or another."
"Any mail?"
He knew what I meant. Some serial killers have to tell the cops how clever they are.
"No letters. No phone calls. Blank fucking zero. It'
s so bad the pimps aren't even afraid to be seen talking to us - they want these guys off the street too. I even heard talk about a bounty . . ." His eyes locked on mine. "You hear anything about a bounty, Burke?"
I met his stare. "No."
It didn't impress the cop. He knew where I'd been raised.
"People like that . . . who knows what could happen if they were arrested. A smart lawyer . . . maybe some kind of NGI deal . . . drop a few dimes. Maybe they'd make it a goddamned miniseries."
NGI. Not Guilty, Insanity. "Better they don't get arrested," I said quietly.
His eyes were ball bearings.
41
I headed back to my office, weaving through the West Side blocks, checking the action. It looked the same to me. If the Ghost Van was trying to keep baby pross off the street, it wasn't working. I couldn't pick up the scent - you have to work close to the ground to do that. If it was out there, the Prof would find it.
Called Mama from a pay phone. Nothing.
Back at the office, I let Pansy out to her roof. I had a few more calls to make, but they'd have to wait until the afternoon.
Pansy ambled over to the desk, where I was working on the racing form, making that snarling noise she does when she's trying to tell me something. I knew what she wanted. "I was at Dino's," I told her, explaining why I hadn't bought her a present.
There was a trotter I fancied in the fourth race at Yonkers. Mystery Mary, a five-year-old mare, moving down from Canada. She'd been running in Open company at Greenwood, finishing pretty consistently in the money, but no wins. She had a lot of early speed, which is unusual for a mare, but she kept getting run down in the deep stretch. Greenwood is a five-eighths-of-a-mile track - a long run from the three-quarter pole to the finish line. Yonkers was a half-miler - a longer launch and a shorter way home. She was moving up to higher purses in New York, but I thought she had a shot if she could get away clean. I checked the last eight races. Mystery Mary was a surefooted little trotter - no breaks on her card. The morning line had her at 6 - 1. Most of the OTB bettors would use the Daily News as a handicapping form. All that would show is her last three outs: two thirds and a fifth-place finish. I made a mental note to call my broker before the close of business, flipped on the TV, and kicked back on the couch. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Abbott telling Costello that paying back rent was like betting on a dead horse.
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