by Mike McKay
Chapter 10
The next morning, when Mark arrived to the Station, Alex Zuiko waited at Mark's desk. By the look of Sarge's red eyes and unshaven face, it had been an all-nighter.
“If you have a minute, Mark, I can introduce you to Miss Jen Lien. She was kind enough to join us. Last night, I made my overtime worth every single dollar…”
“How did you manage?” Alan and Alex were resourceful investigators, but Mark did not expect this happen so fast.
“An old friend of our good doctor was passing by. Alan convinced him to do a little job for us.”
“An old friend?”
“Yes! No names… It's irrelevant… Our volunteer used to be a stock broker. After the Meltdown, he became a con artist. Which is almost the same line of work, considering. He's in nearly full retirement now, but likes to pull one or another of his old hustles. Even for the Police, and totally free of charge. He does it for the adrenaline rush. Loves the art, I guess.”
“And what hustle has he pulled this time, Alex?”
“The con artists call it: Now, You Are in For a Murder. Only instead of the con crew, the real Police officers played this time. Based on her criminal record, Alan figured out our Jen is too greedy. So the set up came like this: his con artist friend, with little make-up and rigged with a microphone, comes across and asks the pimp for a girl. Miss Lien runs all her usual checks, but in such a craft she like a school basketball team against the NBA. Anyhow, she is a pass girl, so has to deliver the client to her unlicensed hooker, to get the pay and introduce our man to the ‘friend,’ the usual drill. On a deserted street our con artist simulates a stroke. A little piece of plastic straw in his mouth, with food coloring and soda sealed in. Yellowish bubbles from the mouth.”
“Obviously, Lien took it for a real thing…”
“Who wouldn't? This man is a bloody professional. I almost shit my pants when I heard his agony wheezing in my earphone! Like: he is an old chap, and this stroke is for-real! Anyway, if our Miss Lien was any good, she would call for help. Or if she was a scary-cat, she would run away. But hey, she is neither good nor shy! Greedy, exactly as we foresaw. Our man was continuously flashing his gold and his wallet. So Lien figures out the man is dead anyway, and decides to relieve him of all the expensive things. In the Heaven or the Hell, a gold watch is wholly unnecessary. Besides, she doesn't need to share her take with any other girl… So in the following three minutes, she makes a quick profit and runs away. Not too far, – straight into my long arms of the law!”
“And?”
“She was darn bold, I admit. Said: no probs, Sergeant, I'm legal. – Trust you, Miss, but can I scan your RFID anyway? So I pull the scanner, it plays ‘ta-da’ and says: license not current. OK, try again. ‘Ta-da.’ I rigged the scanner, see? After that – all by the Standard Operational Procedure. I stand her against the wall, call a female officer, and we pat her up. Here come: our handsome wallet full of cash, our smart-phone, the golden male watch, the ring, and the chain. O-la-la! The watch has a little engraving on the back: To Charles van de Geer for 25 years of service, and the same name – on the phone's welcome screen! Houston, we have a problem! You, Miss, – can't be possibly Charles van de Geer. The scanner says your name is Jennifer.”
“Nicely done!”
“Our con artist is a pro, as I told you. She's obviously in complete denial, says the client gave it to her, or the stuff belongs to her uncle's grandpa, or something along these lines. I say: no problems, enter the password to the smart-phone. If the phone unlocks, I cut you a ticket for the late tag payment and let you go continue your busy night shift. But the phone, darn, – doesn't want to unlock. Miss, it seems you're suffering from severe amnesia. I simply can't leave you on the street in such condition and must book you in. We send her to the slammer. One hour later, I get her out and tell her: the diagnosis is crappier than we initially thought, Miss. It's not amnesia, after all. A body has been found. Charles van de Geer! Now, you are in for a murder. She went into a panic mode and started, like: he was already dead, he was dead! In front of CCTV… Stupid. So now she is firmly on the hook, marinating in the cell. I gave her a hint she might get twenty-five to life.”
“This will not hold in court. Our con man is alive.”
“Alive, well, and already on the military convoy to his home in Corpus Christi. But Miss Lien doesn't need to know, does she?”
“Corpus Christi? Our Doctor Moss has very rich men amongst his friends. A civilian, getting a ride from the Pentagon? Must cost a fortune!”
“Our con man is traveling no-pay this morning. The miracles still happen, even with the sergeants who run these goddamn charters. Sometimes, they get very altruistic. Amazing, what a second-hand Colonel uniform can do if applied properly…”
“A second-hand Colonel uniform? Cool… OK, never mind your con stock broker, whatever. Let's go have a nice talk with Lien. Good cop – bad cop?”
“No, this particular hustle recipe is little different. Instead of a good cop and a bad cop, we're two bad cops: one from the Police and one from the FBI. You play, naturally, for the FBI: you're crooked, but cautious; and I will play for the Police, as I'm plain crooked…”
They walked to the back of the Station, into the interrogation room. The on-duty deputy soon brought in the unlucky prostitute. Her face was covered with leaking eye shades and smudged lipstick. She probably already felt very scared, but Alex was not the one to leave the intimidation business unchecked. Just before the deputy opened the door, he started explaining Mark, as if continuing a long story: “…why the hell did you stick a lady into the male camp? The Corrections' man says: hey, what d'ya call a lady? She's a goddamn SSP! If the girl is a registered hooker, this is the only way. How else can we keep our men in-check? I say: but the girl died. Didn't your boss rip your ass for a dead convict? And he says: nobody said nothing, Sarge. A hooker is a hooker. She probably enjoyed sleeping with fifty boys every night, and who cares?” Alex turned to the door and made it look like he just saw Lien and the deputy entering, “oh, sorry, bro. I was telling Special Agent about my trip to the Corrections… Never mind. Please leave Miss Lien with us, thank you…”
The deputy shut the door, and Sarge pointed to the chair, “please have a seat, Miss Lien.” Then, he turned to Mark and continued his ‘story’: “and so he says, the hooker eventually got pregnant, but this is a big no-no. No problems. The convicts take an aluminum spoon from the canteen, and a candle. Make the spoon very hot. Sterilization of sorts. And stick the spoon into… Oh, never mind. Let's finish with Miss Lien quickly, and then I'll tell you the rest – in full detail.”
“OK, Sergeant,” Mark played along.
Alex turned back to the hooker. “Sorry for making you wait, Miss Lien, this is Special Agent Pendergrass, from the FBI.” Mark demonstrated his badge.
“Perhaps, I shouldn't be talking to you. I wanna a lawyer,” Lien said.
“As you wish, Miss. Just remember, I have read your rights, and you already have been talking. We have this all on camera, don't we? You will need some serious lawyer to pull you out of this crap. A real shark! The cheap one will make the things only worse.”
“I'll get one. I have money…”
“E-e! Reality check! These shark lawyers cost per hour more than you make per week… Basically, we want to do it as easy as possible. I will give you a list, and you will memorize all six cases.”
“What six cases?” Lien was flabbergasted.
“You see, we have six cases – with the same M.O.,” Sarge explained, “A rich man gets himself a hooker. Ka-boom, and we find a dead body. Poisoned and robbed. 'Cause we are certain you did Mister Charles van de Geer tonight…”
“I don't know no Geer!”
“This is not what you said earlier. In front of the camera. Anyway, lady. I don't need that video anymore. The CSIs are starting on the body. You
r fingerprints are on the dead man's belt buckle and on his shirt button.”
“I told you, he was dead already!” She started sobbing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and smearing more mascara over her cheeks, “Yeah, I took the phone… And the other things… But I didn't… didn't kill him!”
“Oh, darling, stop it! No need to cry.” Mark played his ‘crooked FBI man’ role, “what done is done. You didn't want to kill the man, it just happened so. Tell us what you used. Sleeping pills? Ice?”
“I don't use nothing! I told the Sergeant…”
“What about the crack cocaine we found on you?” Alex interjected.
“What crack cocaine?”
Alex triumphantly placed an evidence bag on the table. Inside, – a tiny package with white powder, dusted for prints. “This crack cocaine, lady.”
“This is not mine!” She yelled.
“It's yours now,” Sarge said, “you wrapped it. See that print on the scotch tape?”
“You… You! Shit! You wiped my fingers before deputy took the prints! You had that tape! In the towel! Mister… what's your name? Pendergrass! This Sergeant! He got my print on this – already at the Station. I had no crack on me. I swear to God!”
Mark made an unhappy face. “Did you do it again, Sarge?”
“Well, sorry. The bitch had no drugs on her! What do you want me to do?”
“I told you one hundred times, you bloody clown. Do whatever. Just: I don't! Need! To know! OK, Sarge, I will show you one last time how to do it properly.” He turned to Lien, “I am so sorry, lady. You are probably mistaken. There was no scotch tape in the towel. No tape at all. Just to make sure you have absolutely no drugs on you, I will call our Police doctor – right now. He will check you… How to put it politely… From inside. All by the rules; we will have the witnesses, and a video camera, and take all the photos. I have to tell you right away: if the doctor suddenly finds the drugs (and he will, trust me on this, all our doctors are very good) – it will be an absolute proof. Should we call the doctor, or bravely assume that the little bag on the table is yours and save you all the trouble?” Mark started enjoying being ‘the crooked FBI man.’ Lien looked at them in disbelief. She was not crying anymore. She was horrified.
“OK, lady,” Alex waved his hand as if inviting Lien to forget the horrifying doctor check idea, “crack or no crack, what's the bloody difference? With your dead client – we have an ironclad case. The jewelery, the telephone, the fingerprints… If I were you, – I would make a deal.”
“What deal?”
“You plea guilty of a manslaughter. Let's say the stuff you used was of poor quality. You bought the cheap unchecked shite from an unknown dealer. Happens. Six accounts of manslaughter will put you in a labor camp for just fifteen years.”
“Six? Six accounts?” Lien whispered.
“And how many do you expect, darling? We can't have these cases open forever! Sheriff is unhappy. District Attorney is unhappy. Now, the FBI is unhappy. It's good, Mister Pendergrass and our Station Chief are old friends and don't blame each other…”
“I am not sure we should pin all six on her,” now Mark had to play the ‘cautious’ part of the crooked FBI Agent role. “What if she makes a statement on camera, but later – denies the other five cases?”
“No, sir. She will do nothing stupid. If she does not plea for the six cases of manslaughter, we will go for a first-degree murder. Premeditated! Six accounts! She will get twenty-five to life. No parole.”
Alex turned to Lien. “Let me explain you the difference between the fifteen and the twenty-five, baby. The fifteen – you will be doing in a female labor camp. It's no spa resort, but almost survivable. If you behave yourself, they let you go after twelve years or so. The twenty-five is not only ten years longer than the fifteen. You're a registered hooker. Because of such a predicament, darling, if you go twenty-five without the possibility of parole, you won't be in a female camp. I was just telling Mister Pendergrass. They have a new system, apparently. You will end up in a male camp. The Federal Coal Mines! They run convicts pretty darn hard in those coal mines. Even the bunks are underground – easier to guard, anyhow… Are you ready to serve fifty men every day and do regular abortions – with a hot aluminum spoon? Let's put it this way: the chances you survive all twenty-five years are slim to none. If you do – you come out a mental and physical cripple. Got the picture, young lady?”
Lien nodded quietly.
“So if you got it right,” Sarge continued, “be a good girl and let's start memorizing the other five cases. Mister Pendergrass will check you, and then we record your statement on video.”
“Wait a moment,” Mark said, “I'm just thinking, Sarge. We can't pin all six on her.”
“Why not, sir?”
“What if it's not her? Imagine, she is gone to the camp, but we get a case number seven? The same M.O.?”
“Come on! You will lie something to DA. No big deal.”
“No. I don't like it. The case number seven, I can play around it, but if somebody else gets poisoned and robbed with the same M.O., – shit will hit the fan!”
“You are right, sir. Sorry, I didn't think about it. We need a backup.”
“Miss Lien,” Mark said in indecisive tone, “you're working under Joe Vo, are you?”
She nodded.
“We have information the killer is one of the Joe's hookers. Let's assume for a split second, it's not you. If you tell us everything about Joe Vo, and specifically about all the call girls who work for him, we only pin on you one manslaughter. You will get five years, max. You go to the labor camp, and the killings stop – great. If the killings continue, we have our way out. Tell the DA you're a copycat.”
“I… I told you, sir. No idea why this Charles, or whoever, – died on me. I just took his things… And I have nothing to do with any other killings.”
“OK, I tell you more. If you give us a strong lead to the actual killer of the other five men, I can use my good relations with the CSIs and ask them to go easy on our evidence. They can close their eyes on the fingerprints, for starters. As for the wallet and the gold – we put them back on the stiff. You will be free to go.”
“…OK, sir. I… don't want a labor camp… Even for five years.”
“If you really want to skip the camp, tell us everything,” Alex said, “every bit of info on Joe, please. Everything on all his girls. I mean: everything. Names, addresses, habits, how much they charge, what lipstick they use, and so on.”
“I tell you, Sarge, and Joe will give me a knife…”
“I would not worry about Joe, young lady. Whatever you say, stays between us. He will never know, unless you decide to tell him yourself. Besides, I am not sure if a twenty-five in the Federal Coal Mines is any better than a knife. At least, with the knife, you die fast. And – reasonably painless.”
“OK, I will tell you, but…” she attempted to bargain. She was visibly in better spirits now. It was the entire trick: first explain that the situation is hopeless, and then – give hope, without actually promising anything.
“No ‘buts,’ lady. Start singing. The camera is rolling now,” Alex pressed a button on the remote.
The hooker sheepishly nodded and started her ‘song.’ She described how the organization worked. Joe Vo had eight pass-girls under him, but the entire structure contained more than one hundred hookers. Jen Lien herself controlled eleven unlicensed girls in three locations both sides of C.E.King Parkway. She was dropping the names and addresses, while Alex and Mark jotted their notes, asking clarifying questions from time to time. The video would be transcribed and passed on to the real Sex Trade Control for extra intel, but considering the way they made the hooker talk, none of this could be admissible in courts.
Jen moved on giving information on the hookers she controlled personally and suddenly mentioned, “one mo
re under me, but she is gone now…”
“How is she ‘gone?’ Run away?” Alex asked.
“Killed. With a client. A serial killer, they said. Your FBI boys should know.”
“What was her name?”
“Mel.”
“Surname?”
“I'm what – a notary public? Sorry, Sarge. I mean: in our work, we don't use surnames. Bad for business…”
“What's her home address?”
“In the freaking Slum, north of Sheldon-Res. I didn't care much from where she is from, as soon as she's in my chicken ranch each afternoon.”
“What happens if your girl doesn't show up?”
“For your education, Sarge, there is a thingy. It's called telephone! Besides the jokes, usually I pass the word to Joe, and he sends his ‘boys’,” she expressed the quotation marks with her fingers, “they are paid to fix such things. Why should I do it myself?”
“How do you know Mel is dead?”
“Joe saw something on TV. He told me: go to the bloody funerals and find out. Sure, it was her. The casket was shut, but I saw the photo.”
“What about her client?”
“A vet? With a prosthetic leg? Made him too. The boy I brought to Mel on the evening she was killed. Interesting, he asked Joe for this particular girl. I want only Mel, he said. Didn't want to see any other. He didn't bargain and paid the right price, and Mel was free, so I said: no probs, it's a deal. A bit strange, they ended up in the bloody forest. As if he didn't want to use the room.”
“Did you ask the vet's name?”
“Nick, he said. I didn't ask for the surname. Only at the cemetery I saw it: Hobson. Yeah, sure…”
Alex reached into his pocket and pressed a button on his phone. Thirty seconds later, the phone played the Nutcracker theme, and Alex jolted to the corridor as if to take an urgent call. Immediately after, he knocked on the glass and waved Mark to come out. A trick they sometimes played if they needed to cut an interrogation short.
“Do you think she is telling the truth?” Mark asked Alex after tightly shutting the room door.
“We didn't tell her anything about the funerals' video. She volunteered these details herself.”
“Right. So we confirm the female victim was a hooker, and the late Nick Hobson – her client. But we still haven't got the girl's surname or address. Do you think Miss Lien knows them, but doesn't want to tell us?”
“Not really, Mark. She's right. In this type of business, the surnames and addresses – are a liability. The less you know, the better you sleep.”
“Should we approach this Joe Vo fellow?”
“If I were you, I would skip on it for now. He is way smarter than his hookers.”
“I agree. He will make a square face and tell us that all this is a vivid imagination of Miss Lien. Then – will ask for a lawyer. I can bet you my right arm, he has a real shark at his full service. We only should approach Vo if we get stuck completely. She said, Mel lived in GRS. Let's do this: you continue with Lien for another hour, then go have some sleep. Are you off-duty today? Meanwhile, I call Kim. It seems we have to make another walk around his beat.”
“Sounds like a plan. What exactly will you look for in the Slum?”
“I'll make decision while on the bike. For starters, we can get the list of registered SSP and show them vic's photo. If a hooker in the Mesa Slum somehow remembers her face, the hookers at Garret Road may know her too…”
“Should I let Lien go? The deal is a deal, after all.”
“Will Lien talk? To the others, I mean?”
“Don't think so. She sang us enough on video. If she admits this conversation in front of her buddies, she will be history in no time…”
“OK, then. Ah, one thing. The female convicts being sent to the Federal Coal Mines… Is it true, or just – your imagination?”
“Just imagination. Still, the discussion is ongoing if they should collect volunteers from the female correctional facilities and open regulated brothels in the male camps.”
“What for?”
“They want to make sure the convicts cut enough coal. It seems, the sticks stopped working, so they want to try a carrot – for a change…”
Mark returned to his office and dialed Kim's phone.
“I am on patrol, sir. Please come directly to the office, we have… It should be open,” the young Deputy sounded strangely shy.
