The big man shrugged, indifferent once more. "Most days I sleep."
That much Monk believed. "Were you sleeping last Tuesday afternoon?"
"Probly." Rennell said this with a lassitude which seemed to have seeped into his bone and brain, bespeaking days that were endlessly the same. To Monk, he seemed so divorced from humanity as to be beyond reach.
This same thought seemed to have struck Ainsworth. With a quiet, lascivious undertone, he inquired, "When you saw her at the store, Rennell, did you think that she was pretty?"
This time Rennell did not move or speak.
"Her name was Thuy Sen," Monk said in an even tone. "Is there anything else you can tell us about her?"
To Monk's surprise, Rennell Price gazed up at him, though his face held no emotion. Then, very softly, he answered, "I didn't do that little girl."
So how do you know she was "done"? Monk wondered. He said nothing to Rennell.
SIX
MONK HAD BEGUN WATCHING THE STREET TRAFFIC AND THE neighborhood stores, a grocery and vegetable stand and delicatessen with salami hanging in the window, stirring to life as they talked. Observing was his habit, Terri supposed.
"I suppose it occurred to you," she said, "that Flora Lewis saw what she wanted to see. Or maybe didn't see it at all."
Monk turned to her. "You mean used me to rid her of these two black crackheads and their boom box, sort of scoop up the garbage?"
"Something like that."
Monk smiled faintly. "Something like that is why we went back to see her."
* * *
They drove back to the Bayview in the morning. Crack dealers stay up at night and sleep in late—they didn't want the Price brothers to see them and then torch Flora Lewis's house with her still in it.
Their questions started simply, parsing her story into microscopic details: the time she first saw Payton and Rennell on the day Thuy Sen vanished; where precisely she was standing; whether she was wearing her glasses; how long it was until the Asian child appeared; how much longer it took for the girl to disappear inside. Then, what the brothers were wearing—a red windbreaker and blue jeans for Payton, she said, a black hooded sweatshirt and maybe matching sweatpants for Rennell. Now and then, Monk or Ainsworth would repeat a question to see if her answers were the same. At length, Ainsworth placed six mug shots on the coffee table in front of her.
"Recognize any of them?" he asked.
"Of course," she answered with asperity and jabbed a palsied finger at two photographs. "This one's Payton. This is Rennell—the one that grabbed that child off the street."
"Can you tell me again what she was wearing?"
"Of course—plaid skirt and a dark green sweater."
"Is it possible," Monk asked carefully, "that you remember her clothes from the description on TV?"
Lewis plucked at a pleat of her flowered dress in a gesture of irritation. "I saw her. What I least remember, Inspector, is the description on TV. I was too shocked."
"We have to be thorough. I'm sure you understand the importance of that."
The tacit reminder that this was a homicide investigation which could become a murder trial seemed to give Lewis pause. When Monk placed Thuy Sen's school photograph beside the two black faces, she studied it with quiet sobriety.
"Is this the girl you saw?"
Lewis bit her lip. "You know, I just can't be sure. I think so. But I don't remember ever seeing her pass by before—or any Asian girl. From here to the sidewalk it's hard to pick up features."
"But you recognized Rennell and Payton."
"Because they were facing me, and I've seen them all their lives. They live there, after all."
"But you say other young men come there, too."
"That's true."
"Could one or both of the men you saw with the Asian girl have been one of them—a visitor—instead of Payton or Rennell?"
In the dim light of her standing lamp, Lewis's mouth pursed, and then she shook her head decisively. "No. I can even tell you how Rennell Price walked toward that little girl, with the kind of lumbering menace he always has. Like he enjoys what his presence does to people."
Monk pondered whether to raise the matter of race, then chose a more neutral question. "The other young men that visited the brothers—can you identify any of them?"
Lewis stared into some middle distance, considering the question. "I don't know them, or even know their names. Maybe one—the tall one with the light blue, beat-up Cadillac. Seems like he's always parked out there when there's any space to park."
"Ever see this man up close?"
"No. Just through the window."
"Think you'd recognize his picture?"
Lewis's eyes narrowed in thought. "Without seeing it, I don't know."
"But you didn't see his car that day."
"Not that day, no." Lewis paused, then added with emphatic distaste, "All I saw was those two brothers."
Watching her, Monk decided to change course. "Do you remember the last time, Miss Lewis, you spoke with either Payton or Rennell?"
Lewis's shoulders twitched. "A long time ago."
"Years?"
"Several years. Ever since I saw what they'd become."
"Was there a particular incident?" Ainsworth asked.
Lewis hesitated. Then she said, "Payton called me a vulgarity."
"Recall the nature of it?"
She folded her arms. "I was carrying a bag of groceries. The bottom dropped out, and a melon burst all over the sidewalk." Her voice filled with indignation. "Payton and Rennell were sitting on the porch. But neither lifted a finger to help. Instead, Payton laughed and said, 'Serves that nosy old bitch right.' "
"How old would you say Payton was?" Monk inquired.
"Thirteen, fourteen."
"So that was eight or more years ago. When was the last time you saw one of the brothers up close?"
"I don't know, Inspector—I cross the street to avoid them, and keep my eyes straight ahead." Her tone became quiet. "Like I saw that little Asian girl do."
"So it's been years since you looked Rennell or Payton in the face."
"Maybe that's been years. But I see them most afternoons across the street, preparing to do their filthy business."
"What business would that be?"
"Selling drugs, Inspector. Turning other boys into them."
Monk considered this. "While all that's going on, what's their grandmother doing?"
"Mrs. Price? I barely see her anymore, except looking out on the street from the second-story window." Lewis's tone assumed a measured compassion. "She always seemed like a decent, churchgoing woman. I still see her walking to church on Sundays, sometimes with a flower pinned to her dress.
"Years ago, maybe we'd stop and talk. But now I think she just stays locked up on the second floor of the house, hiding from those boys and their lowlife friends. Sometimes I wonder how their music sounds to her."
Monk was silent. The sense of kinship which he heard seemed to make Flora Lewis pensive. "I suppose," she reflected, "that those brothers have turned us both into recluses. Eula Price only goes to church, and I only go to the corner store. So we don't speak anymore."
"Do you have any black friends, Miss Lewis?"
"I don't have any friends, now. The ones I had are dead or gone."
"Did they include black folks?"
"To talk to."
"To invite to your house?"
Lewis looked him in the eyes. "No. Does that make me a racist?"
"What you are for sure, ma'am, is a witness. What about friends or acquaintances who are Asian—at any time."
"At all times," Lewis said flatly, "I'm civil. Have been my entire life, to anyone who deserves it. But I can't say that I've had Asian friends."
"Just how long have you lived here, Miss Lewis?"
"I was born here. If you're curious, that adds up to seventy-two years. Thirty-three with my parents, thirty-nine alone, twelve since I retired from teaching school."
She had lived here by herself, Monk calculated, since World War II, the time that Bayview had begun to change. "How does this neighborhood seem to you now?"
Lewis sat erect. "Like a nightmare," she said harshly. "Except that I don't wake up." Abruptly, her voice trembled, and a film of tears glistened in her eyes. "My parents left me this house out of love, to be my safety and security. Now I can't escape it."
Monk drew a breath. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
Lewis paused to compose herself. "Don't be. Just believe the truth of what I've told you." Once more, she laid her finger on the mug shot of Rennell Price. "This one's Rennell, the one who pulled the Asian girl off the street. The other one, Payton, closed the door behind her. Lord knows what they did to her."
Monk and Ainsworth stopped for coffee at a dingy soul food restaurant on Third Street. No one else was there.
Ainsworth took a sip of coffee. "So?"
"So I'm pretty damned sure she's sure of everything she thinks she saw. I'm also pretty sure Thuy Sen died inside that house."
"Me, too. Why not get a warrant?"
Monk shook his head. "Let's poke around a little—whatever we'd find at Grandma's house is likely to still be there in a day or two. I keep wondering about how Thuy Sen got from the house to the bay. Sure as hell didn't walk there, and the brothers don't own a car."
Ainsworth propped his chin on folded hands. "Wouldn't be smart to swipe a car for that, would it."
* * *
"A tall guy in a light blue Cadillac," Larry Minnehan repeated. "That would be my man Eddie Fleet."
He turned to the bulletin board and pointed out a mug shot, glancing at the notation beside it. "You're in luck, guys—no overnight change in status. Eddie's still not dead."
Monk studied the photograph—close-cropped hair, flat features, full mouth with one corner twisted in disdain. Even from a head shot Monk could guess that Fleet was tall and rangy. "Tell me about this guy."
"A real waste of talent—before crack got to him he was a playground hoops legend. But you know the story—all innates, no character." Squinting, Minnehan called upon his memory. "I'm remembering girlfriend violence, a concealed weapons charge, a couple of assaults, a dopedealing rap that got kicked for illegal search and seizure. Typical lowlife résumé."
"What's he got to do with the Prices?"
"He's Payton's jack-of-all-trades, majordomo, and chauffeur. God help us if the State of California took away this asshole's car, 'cause then he couldn't drive Payton where he needed to go. Then where would the Bayview be." Minnehan cocked his head. "You thinking Eddie might fit in this somewhere?"
"He'd give us someone else to play with." Monk thought for a moment, then asked Minnehan, "Rennell have any girlfriends you know of?"
* * *
On the way back to the Hall of Justice, Ainsworth pondered this. "You think Payton's covering for his pedophile brother?"
"Too fancy a concept for him to get his mind around," Monk answered. "But it's funny Minnehan never saw Rennell with any women. I'd have given odds he'd be a daddy by now." He turned their car down Bryant Street. "It would make more sense if Rennell wound up alone with her. That's how these creeps like it."
"What's in it for Payton?"
"He's no respecter of women, either. Maybe Rennell wants what he wants, and Payton just wants his muscle happy. What's Thuy Sen to either one of them?"
* * *
The toxicology report was waiting on Monk's desk. He passed the report to Ainsworth. Thuy Sen had died clean—no crack cocaine in her system. Though this was only what Monk expected, he had learned that you could never be too jaded. In the Bayview, girls scarcely older than Thuy Sen traded oral sex for crack.
Putting down the report, Ainsworth asked, "What goes next—warrant, or Fleet?"
"I keep thinking about that Cadillac," Monk answered.
"Eddie Fleet," Terri said now. "Anyone's dream witness. No wonder you went looking for him."
Monk regarded her impassively. "That's what we get in our business—scumbags who know about other scumbags. You were expecting Kofi Annan?"
SEVEN
LARRY MINNEHAN AND HIS PARTNER, JACK BRESLIN, DROVE MONK and Ainsworth out to look for Eddie Fleet.
Their unmarked car entered Double Rock, a public housing project so lawless that cops who went there feared being shot. "Came out here last week," Minnehan said, "to pick up a guy for a probation violation. Walked into his kitchen and the fucker jumps out from behind the refrigerator and tries to shoot me in the face."
"What happened?" Ainsworth asked.
Behind the wheel, Minnehan kept tautly watching the street as he drove. "Pretty much blew his kneecap away. He's off the street for a while."
Not that it much mattered, Monk thought. The dingy stucco buildings spewed an endless supply of young men warped by Double Rock into dead-enders before they could make the choices they never believed they had. The place they lived in looked like a training ground for prison: even the graffiti-scarred buildings, some with windows boarded up, had addresses—like F-7: 18401860—which reminded Monk of a prisoner's ID number. As they passed one parking lot, a gangly teenage boy, urinating on someone else's car, called out to Minnehan, "Don't give me a ticket for pissing, man."
Minnehan, laughing, gave him a jocular version of a papal blessing. "That's Lance," Minnehan explained. "He's a Crip, and stupid as a rock. Whoever owns that car will probably do him for us." Breslin kept his eyes on the street.
A block later the car slowed to a stop beside a gray-bearded man in a Yankees cap cooking burgers on a grill. Breslin rolled down the window. "Hey, Globetrotter."
The man glanced warily at the two strangers in the back of the car. "Hey, man. What's happening?"
"Nothin' much. Just looking for Eddie Fleet."
"Eddie? Haven't seen that boy for a while. Heard he took a job being President of Microsoft."
A corner of Breslin's mouth turned up, though his eyes didn't change. "If he gets sick of it, Trotter, and comes back here, you might mention dropping by our office. We've got an opportunity for him."
The man nodded. It would not take long, Monk knew, for word on the street to spread.
"Fucking waste," Breslin said as the car pulled away. "Man used to play for the Globetrotters before the white powder got him. Now all he can afford is crack." They kept on driving, eyes combing the sidewalk idlers for the guy who looked back at them a little too long, or avoided looking at all, or maybe just started walking faster—the small signs of psychic disruption at the otherwise routine appearance of an unmarked car.
Two blocks later it happened. From the backseat, between the broad shoulders of the two cops, Monk saw a tall man slide from inside an old blue Cadillac and swiftly head for the door of an apartment in a one-story complex. "Step on it," Breslin said.
Minnehan did, snapping Monk and Ainsworth against their seat. Tires squealing, they pulled up in front of the complex; Breslin leapt out of the car before it stopped and covered the twenty feet to the door before the man could get inside. By the time the three others came up behind him, Breslin had his quarry by the scruff of his sweatshirt and was pressing his face against the door. "Give me trouble, Eddie, and I'm gonna be truly pissed."
Fleet said nothing. Jerking him three steps to the sidewalk, Breslin held Fleet upright while Minnehan searched him. In the bright afternoon sunlight, three women and a small boy walked by with their eyes straight ahead, their silence the only sign they had even noticed a black man being frisked by two white cops.
This gave Monk time to look Fleet over. He was perhaps six foot five, with close-cropped hair, cleft chin, and a broad face whose most remarkable features were a nose which appeared to have been flattened—perhaps by a flying elbow in a Darwinian game of playground hoops—and large brown eyes, which just before they assumed an unusually persuasive look of otherworldly detachment had raked Monk's face with a swift, keen glance. Monk had never seen Eddie Fleet before, but he understood at
that moment that Fleet knew who he was—Monk's reputation on the street, held with a mixture of awe, fear, and respect, was that of a man who could be trusted but never crossed. By the time this piece of street theater was over, word would begin spreading in the Bayview that he had picked up Eddie Fleet.
"You keep Eddie company," Minnehan directed Breslin. He climbed up the stairs, Monk and Ainsworth following, to knock on the door Fleet had tried to enter.
It took several more knocks until a young woman answered, clutching the front of her white robe. She was in her early twenties, Monk guessed, with one eye swollen half shut in her scared, pretty face. It was Eddie Fleet's notion of foreplay, Monk supposed.
"Mind if we come in," Minnehan said. Though it was phrased like a question, the woman knew that it was not one: she lived in public housing, and any problem with the law could get her thrown out. In her world Larry Minnehan had more power than the President.
Her name was Betty Sims, and she turned out to be no housekeeper. She backed away from them into a cramped three-room apartment with sheets strewn across the couch and floor, CDs scattered all over a small kitchen table, and what looked like a couple of days' of dirty dishes in the sink. The chicken cooking on the stove seemed to Monk a sad gesture toward domesticity, as did the incongruous Chinese painting above the couch. The woman's one unblemished eye as she watched them was frightened and sad and deeply resigned, and Monk could feel her shame and helplessness at being exposed to the judgment of strangers.
Minnehan left to search her bedroom. With a nod to Betty Sims, Monk followed.
Her bureau was covered with cosmetics and empty beer bottles. Minnehan yanked open the top drawer, revealing a treasure trove of frilly bras and panties with the sales tags still on them.
"Girl's an underwear klepto," he observed.
Ainsworth was studying a framed picture on the bureau: next to the carousel in Golden Gate Park a slight woman stood beside a fleshy, smiling man. "Demetrius George," Ainsworth said. "Last time I looked, he was a suspect in a gang murder."
"Still is," Minnehan said. "Let's ask Betty."
Conviction Page 4