She reached across the table and took both her hands. “I apologize, Bev, for not knowing these things. For not being there for you while you coped with this madness. This must be awful for you.”
“Awful would be easy to bear,” she said simply.
And they sat with their feelings for a moment. Mimi took up the pamphlet again, reading it silently this time. “Jesus, that’s a tough neighborhood,” she said finally. “If you were going to leave, you should have left.”
“I’m not running away from the fight, Mimi. I’m just choosing a different weapon. Same battleground, same enemy, different weapon. I think I can accomplish more in a clinic setting than I ever could in the school system. The rules too often get in the way of results.”
“I think you’re right. The more I observe systems, the more convinced I am that they’re designed to fail. The inherent stupidity is overwhelming sometimes.”
Bev looked at her skeptically. “Has Gianna ever heard you say those words?”
Mimi laughed. “Oh, she knows my innermost feelings about the workings of the criminal justice system, including her very own police department.”
“Must make for interesting dinner conversation,” Bev said wryly.
“Actually, it doesn’t,” Mimi said quietly.
Bev looked at her closely. “You can’t mean you two don’t talk about standing on different sides of the same fence?” When Mimi didn’t respond, Bev looked hesitant but allowed herself a final word. “What you two do is too intense not to share it with each other. Now. I’m butting out.”
Mimi was about to tell her it was okay, that she probably needed to discuss it with somebody, when Bev’s face changed and Mimi felt an instant of sharp jealousy because that look was the look of love. She turned to see what Bev saw and the jealousy pang got sharper. This was, no doubt, Sylvia.
She was taller than Mimi by a couple of inches and walked with a loose, easy stride. The baggy britches and long shirt could not disguise the fact that a perfect body lived within. Her hair resembled Mimi’s in that there was a lot of it and it existed in defiance of any particular style. Mimi called her own “free hair.” Sylvia’s attitude seemed to suggest that she didn’t need to call hers anything. She kissed Beverly and greeted Mimi warmly and sat down in what seemed like one fluid motion. Mimi had never seen a more relaxed, at ease, and at the same time more totally in control person. She caught the waitress’s eye and raised three fingers, ordering fresh, cold beers for them. Sylvia’s entire arrival couldn’t have taken more than half a minute, and Bev’s eyes never left her. Yep, Mimi thought. Definitely love.
They spent the next few moments getting acquainted and waiting for the beers, moments during which Mimi learned that Sylvia, an Ohio native and former professional dancer, taught dance and yoga at her own studio. Gianna arrived at the same time as the beers and while they were waiting for the waitress to bring another and for more salsa and chips, she apologized for being late by explaining that she had just been the victim of an attempted street mugging at the cash withdrawal machine outside her bank.
“Poor guy,” she said as she concluded her story. “He just picked the wrong person to stick up.”
“Poor guy my ass!” Mimi snorted. “He’d probably have shot you if you hadn’t been trained to kick him in the balls. And besides, how many times have I asked you not to use the machine on that deserted side street?”
Gianna ignored Mimi’s chastisement. “The gun wasn’t real and he was no criminal. He was a scared, broke kid from a farm in South Carolina who needed money for food,” Gianna said wearily, but with no trace of anger.
“So he thought it was okay to put a gun in your face and steal your money?” Bev’s impatience was evident. “That’s crap, Gianna, and believe me when I tell you that fear doesn’t care whether or not a gun is real. I know from experience.”
“You didn’t tell me that part,” Mimi said accusingly.
“That part doesn’t matter, Mimi. What matters is that we’ve got to stop finding reasons to excuse and accept violent behavior.”
“Just don’t suggest that we lock them all up and throw away the key,” Gianna said. “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, and even if I could, which I can’t, there is absolutely no reason to believe that such action has preventive any effect at all.”
“But if punishment isn’t a deterrent,” Sylvia posed, “what is?”
“Yeah, somebody tell me so I can have the exclusive on the story of the century. I could use a Pulitzer.” Mimi almost succeeded in keeping the cynicism out of her voice.
Beverly laughed and began to say something but stopped, her eyes focused on something behind Mimi, who turned to find herself face to face with Baby Doll.
“Hey Newspaper Lady.”
Because she was watching Baby, Mimi could only imagine the startled looks she got from Gianna, Bev and Sylvia when she said,
“Hi, Baby. How are you? I almost didn’t recognize you.” Baby had on baggy jeans and a man-sized pullover, sneakers, and wore her hair in a short natural cut. Without the wig and the costume of her profession, she looked like the child she was, though the long sleeves in the eighty-degree heat gave her away as a junkie.
“You think I dress like that all the time? I ain’t crazy, you know. And even people like me gotta take a day off sometimes.” Mimi was at a loss for words. Baby was not.
“Her manners ain’t so good, I guess. My name is Marlene,” she said, shaking hands around the table. Bev was amused, Gianna was bemused, having accurately assessed both Baby’s profession and her addiction, and Sylvia couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Mimi took one look at their faces and recovered her equilibrium.
“Baby...ah...Marlene and I almost worked a story together.”
“Yeah, almost. Till you blew it, Newspaper Lady. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.” And with that, Baby tossed a wave to the table and continued her amble down the street.
Mimi had no choice but to explain, which she did in the broadest possible terms. Bev thought it a shame that someone as pretty and as obviously smart as Baby was living so wasted a life. Sylvia didn’t realize that reporters really did consort with prostitutes and drug dealers and gang members—she’d thought that was all television hype, and Mimi rushed to assure her that most of it was. But it was Gianna’s reaction that put Mimi on notice, for she reacted virtually not at all. She just sat there with that bemused look on her face and Mimi knew it meant that she was working the prostitution murders as an active case.
Goddammit! Here we go again, Mimi thought as she remembered the last time they both had chased the same story and how it almost ended their relationship before it began.
CHAPTER SIX
If Sylvia was surprised to see Mimi outside her studio six days later, she gave no hint. She received Mimi warmly and invited her back to an interior garden and offered ice cold lemonade. Mimi was impressed that Sylvia owned the building and had a dance and yoga enrollment schedule that kept her and another instructor busy five days a week. The more Mimi learned of Sylvia the more she liked her. She was better for Bev than Mimi ever had been and Mimi was happy for both of them. She told Sylvia as much, then told her why she was there.
“So there was more to the Baby Doll story than met the ear,” Sylvia said with a laugh. But she turned immediately serious when she put her mind to the task at hand. “There are quite a few spiritual communities in the city and suburbs that do some kind of outreach, Mimi, and any one of them could be what you’re looking for.”
“I didn’t know they went in for that kind of thing. I thought missionary work was more the purview of Western Christianity and not Eastern mysticism.”
“It’s not that cut and dried,” Sylvia said slowly. “It’s not as simple as East versus West, fundamentalism versus mysticism.”
“What is it, then?” Mimi asked, genuinely curious.
“A lot of it, very simply, is about restoring the balance.” Sylvia smiled at the look o
n Mimi’s face, and continued. “That means trying to get us human animals back in tune with nature and our other relations. See, we’re the ones out of whack. We’re the ones that disturbed the balance in the first place—”
“Yeah, I know that and you know that but what does that have to do with proselytizing among prostitutes?” Mimi’s curiosity had turned to skepticism.
“You said Baby said AIDS prevention was the purpose of the outreach?” When Mimi nodded Sylvia raised her palms and shrugged. “And what could be more representative of the destruction of the balance than AIDS? I don’t even know anymore how many of my friends have been taken. Do you? Do you still count?”
“No,” Mimi said quietly. “I don’t. I count the ones who are still here.”
“Exactly. And that’s how we restore the balance. We correct the error as we find it.”
“And hookers are the error?” Mimi raised her eyebrows.
“Certainly not,” Sylvia said vehemently. “They’re the victims of the error.”
“And victims,” Mimi said slowly, understanding dawning, “are a logical place to sow seeds of correction.”
“You’d make a great wooly-headed mystic, Mimi,” Sylvia said with a laugh.
“Thanks, oh great Swami,” Mimi said, sharing the laughter. “Do you think you can find out who’s working with the hook...ah the prostitutes?”
“I’ll find them. And when I find them, I think I’ll join them. They’re doing a good thing. Besides,” Sylvia said with a grin, “I like your friend, Baby Doll. She’s worth the effort.”
They passed one of the studios on the way to the front door and Mimi stopped to watch a yoga class in progress. She did a double-take as she realized that the average age of the eleven women in the room had to be seventy.
“How wonderful,” Mimi murmured as she watched the women bend and flow in graceful harmony and unity, their bodies lithe and supple in defiance of what those women had been conditioned for a lifetime to expect and accept.
“I started the sixty-plus group less than a year ago. Every one of these women has arthritis or heart disease or diabetes or some other debilitating malady, and most of them believed, when they first came here, that their physical life was over.” Sylvia pointed to a gorgeous dark brown woman with close-cropped white hair in the center of the front row. “That’s my mother. Sixty-eight. She’s had two hip replacement operations and needed two canes to walk nine months ago. She’s why I started the group. The three to her left are her bridge club.” Sylvia laughed out loud and shook her head as she led Mimi past the studio to the front door.
“I knew yoga was one of those things that’s supposed to be good for you, but I had no idea this was possible,” Mimi said.
“It’s better for you than lifting weights,” Sylvia said in a totally non-proselytizing tone. “Come to a class some time.”
“Thanks,” Mimi said. “I will.” And she meant it.
*****
The Boss was not happy and the entire Hate Crimes unit knew it. She usually relaxed when she was with her Team in the privacy of the Think Tank, leaning back in her chair, feet on the desk, eyes closed, listening to them brainstorm, but she was conducting today’s briefing like a college lecture. Bobby Gilliam always referred to this manifestation of Lieutenant Maglione as Her Chilly Self: when she grew still and quiet and her eyes flashed and her voice got so low she could barely be heard. Her Chilly Self had been that way since announcing to them that they were now Cowboy Cops. She obviously didn’t share their elation at their change of fortune—which didn’t unnerve them as much as their not being able to tell what Detective Ashby felt about it. He and the Lieutenant were so amazingly alike and yet so amazingly different that the Team was never more than fifty percent correct in their predictions of his reactions, responses and behaviors; but it was easier for them to know what to do when they could read Eric. The Boss and the Detective agreed and disagreed with each other at the most unlikely times. Cassie, Lynda and Bobby believed Eric to be secretly pleased to be a Cowboy. Tim and Kenny thought not.
They were grouped around the table in the Think Tank. Crime scene photos of the six murdered prostitutes lined one wall. The blackboard and the chart on the easel were filled with numbers and the codes that matched them with other numbers: telephone numbers, addresses, dates, times—all attempts to find points of commonality among the six dead women.
“Thanks to good work by everybody, we’ve made some real headway, Boss,” Eric said en route to the black board. “It may or may not represent a pattern, but two women were killed in each of three locations: two worked the New York Avenue strip, two worked DuPont Circle East, and two worked downtown in the vicinity of the Convention Center and the train station.” As he talked, he pointed to the photographs of the women and to the colored pins in the map that corresponded to the victim in question.
“What’s the purple pin at the top of the map, Eric?” Gianna asked with a frown. That was a purely residential uptown area. “What’s the connection?”
“That’s a yoga and meditation center up in Takoma Park. Two of the victims had the phone number of this place among their possessions.”
“Oh, practitioners of the New Age version of the world’s oldest profession?”
A little laugh of relief swept the room. The Boss was thawing out, becoming her human self.
Eric grinned in relief too. “Kenny will be happy to tell you the whole story since he made the initial visit.”
Gianna listened intently as Kenny detailed his visit to the Washington Center for Spiritual Awakening in an upper middle class section of the city adjacent to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. She knew the area well: block after block of huge two-and-three story Victorian homes, many of them restored to their former elegance by upwardly mobile and well-salaried young professionals. Ancient oak and elm towered over the houses, giving the houses the appearance of being protected while also enhancing their graceful beauty. Takoma Park had been for a long time, if not always, a rather eclectic community in what was a largely staid and conservative city, so it wasn’t surprising to find the Center for Spiritual Awakening located there. Nine people lived in the Center, Kenny related, all of whom taught several classes a week in yoga and meditation; all of whom volunteered at least two days a week working with the ill or the aged or the imprisoned; all of whom spent at least two evenings a week seeking to acquaint prostitutes with the dangers of AIDS.
“Are these people legit?” Gianna interrupted Kenny’s report.
“As legit as you or me, Boss,” Eric said. “I checked ‘em every way from Christmas and back. Not a single blemish on a single one of them. They’re the real thing: Truly decent people.”
“Okay, Kenny,” she said, signaling him to continue his report.
“When they go out on the street, when they pass out condoms, they also pass out free vegetarian meals to anybody who asks. And, it seems, they’ll just sit and talk to anybody who needs to talk. Two of our victims—Sandra Ann King aka Shelley Kelley, and
Patricia McIntire aka Patty Mack—got in real close with these Center people. Quit drinking and drugging and were about to quit the street life when they got offed.”
“And do what?” Tim snorted. “Sell flowers at Union Station?”
“Hey, Man, I’m just telling you what the people told me,” Kenny said with an elaborate shrug.
“Sounds a little too good to be true to me,” Bobby offered. “I find it hard to believe that a plate of vegetables will make a junkie clean up, or a hooker stop tricking.”
“Anybody can turn a life around at any time,” Lynda said with a wise nod of her head. “My Uncle Hugo had a dream one night that an angel saved him from the fires of hell. The next week, he passed out drunk in an alley off Columbia Road, behind his favorite hangout. Some kids set him on fire. A lady heard him screaming and ran outside in her nightgown and poured water on him. She saved his life. She was his dream come true, you know, because she looked like an angel in her ni
ghtgown and all. Anyway, he hasn’t had a drink since, and he’s helped start three Spanish-speaking Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in Adams-Morgan.”
“Bet he keeps his ass out of alleys, too,” Bobby said, and even Lynda joined in the raucous laughter that lightened the mood in the room, extending even to Gianna.
“One other thing, Boss,” Kenny said when order returned. “Even though the folks at that Spiritual Center uptown were really impressed that we’re investigating these murders, I got the feeling that they were holding something back. So I thought...” He trailed off, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“You thought what, Kenny?” Gianna prodded.
“Well, I thought it might help if you went to talk to them, you being a Lieutenant and all...”
“Good idea.” She rifled through the stack of reports, found his, and placed it on the top of the pile. “I’ll go in the morning. Call and set it up for nine-thirty. Anything else jump out at us?”
“Yeah, Boss. One more thing.” Eric opened a report from the Medical Examiner, took out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table to Gianna. “Late March and early April, late September and early October. All the murders occurred in those months. I gotta think that’s signifi—” He stopped speaking because she was no longer listening. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the blackboard, at the series of telephone numbers.
“That’s certainly worth considering,” she said. Her voice had gone tight again. She stood, gathered up the reports, and crossed to the door. “Eric, my office, please. Rest of you, good work.”
Night Songs Page 7
