“She usually come here alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Galinas—”
He began to sweat; I could smell it and see it near his receding hairline. “I mean no. But like I said, it ain’t my business. Did she break a law? Because if she did, I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
“She’s dead.”
Galinas went a little pale. “Damn.” Maybe he was thinking of the lost revenue. “She was a good kid when she wasn’t strung out. My wife sometimes watched her kid while she…” Clearly uncomfortable, he let the thought trail away.
“Did she have a pimp?”
“Don’t they all?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Sighing, he answered with a little more respect than before. “Yeah, I guess they do. Sometimes I saw her exchanging something with a guy in the parking lot. He was kinda tall, with dark hair. I only saw him once or twice, so I’m not sure. Never saw his face.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Maybe a week ago.”
“With Amy?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. He has three, four girls who come here.”
“When did you last see Amy?”
“Over the weekend. Uh… Saturday night.”
According to the autopsy report, Amy died on Saturday around midnight. “Did she bring her kid with her?”
“No. Don’t know where he was.”
I was writing everything down, but not really because I needed to. I have a very good memory. However, it doesn’t hurt to be doubly sure of names, dates, details.
Piccolino came into the lobby and stood next to me. I nodded toward her. “This is Detective Piccolino. Piccolino, this is Mr. Galinas, the manager here.”
She nodded, but remained silent. I gave her a look that said she was doing the right thing. I had been on a roll with Galinas and I didn’t want to get sidetracked.
“How long was Amy here?”
“Maybe two hours. I didn’t set a stopwatch.”
Piccolino made a soft snorting sound, but it sounded disdainful, not coaxed by humor.
“I’ll need a description of the person she came with.”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
“Did she leave with the same man?”
“I dunno. She came in and dropped off the key, then she left.”
“No estimate of what time that was?”
“Well…” He pondered that for a few moments. “It was about when the news comes on. So maybe six o’clock?”
“Okay. I think that’s all for now.” I closed my notebook and put it back in my pocket next to Amy’s picture. “You might be called to give a deposition. We’ll see.”
“Great,” he said with a groan. “Like I got time for this crap.”
I turned away. A woman was dead. I didn’t much care what time he had for us; she had no time at all.
* * *
Piccolino slid into the car seat next to me, as I started up the unmarked police sedan. “What did you think?”
“He seemed nervous, but I think he was telling the truth,” she replied.
“Maybe. I don’t think we got all the truth, though.”
“How do you know?”
It was a good question, so I stabbed at an answer. “Because I think he gets a payoff from the pimps. He claims he hasn’t seen the guy’s face. I think it’s more likely that he has, but he’s too scared to describe him. I’d like to know why.”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah. Hmm.” I pulled out of the parking lot and we headed over to Amy’s last known residence: 424 Isabel Street. Piccolino said nothing as we drove.
The apartment building we arrived at was a standard stucco-with-wood trimmed building. Common in southern California and a product of the sixties. It was old, but pretty well cared for. Although there were cars parked in front of the building, no one was loitering around. We found the manager’s apartment and spoke to her for a little while. Apparently, three young women had lived with Amy in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor. They’d moved out almost six months ago, leaving no forwarding address, and nothing but crumbs and cockroaches in the cupboards. The manager hadn’t taken note of who came and went. Like Galinas, she kept to her own affairs and didn’t ask questions of her tenants. So long as they paid the rent and didn’t blast their stereos, she had as little to do with them as possible.
I would have asked her if she’d seen the tall man with the dark hair, but there wasn’t much point. That description was so vague as to be useless. Hell, it came close to describing me!
We left, none the wiser for our efforts.
Back at the station, we found out that Barry’s grandparents had arrived back in town and were with him. I phoned and asked them to come to the station with him for some questioning. Although they were concerned about dredging up bad memories for the boy, they complied, and the trio came within the hour. I had Child Protective Services come in as well, to make sure everything was by the book. We met in one of the witness interrogation rooms. It was a comfortable, glassed-in space, with lots of chairs and a table. There was a plant in the corner, and it had the benefit of not smelling like the suspect interrogation rooms, which stunk of fear and lies.
My first impression of the grandparents was that they were conservative, freshly tanned, and the woman resembled Amy quite a bit. Too bad their daughter would never have the chance to reach their age. They looked sad and stressed. I introduced myself and shook their hands. Piccolino did the same. Hell knows what they made of her, but they both gave me a skeptical look after shaking her hand. Their grandson clung to Mrs. Alexander’s free hand like a lifeline. And maybe she was.
I hunkered down to the boy’s height—he was small for a four year old, in my estimation—and smiled at him a little, offering my hand. “I’m Detective Striker,” I said. “I’m a policeman. Detective Piccolino and I are trying to find out what happened to your mom.”
He didn’t cry, nor did he look anything but sad as he took my hand shyly. “Mommy is in heaven with my daddy.” I wondered who his daddy might be, but didn’t ask. He thought the man was dead, and I didn’t know anything different, so why argue the point?
“I’m sorry about that,” I said sincerely. “Let’s sit down. I want you to have the special chair right in the middle. Is that okay?”
He nodded.
Once we were all arranged, with the family across the table from me and Piccolino, I started with some small talk, asking him if he was in kindergarten yet, did he have a best friend, that kind of thing. He was reticent to talk to me, and appeared to be sizing me up suspiciously, looking at me with eyes the color of Amy’s. Piccolino wisely stayed quiet.
“Barry, was your mommy sick very much?”
He shrugged.
“Was she sick the night she died?”
He shrugged again.
“Barry—”
His grandmother piped in. “His mother called him ‘Bear-bear’ apparently.”
“Ah. Well, I hope I can call you that, too. I want to be your friend.”
Once again, he shrugged.
I gave him what I thought was a reassuring smile, though the subject was grim. “So Bear-bear, did your mommy seem sick the night she died?”
“I guess.”
“What was she like?”
“I love my mommy. She loved me, too. She said so.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Mommies are supposed to love us. I’m sure your grandma and grandpa love you, too.”
“I dunno. They say so, but I don’t know them too good.”
I looked up at Mrs. Alexander. “Amy ran away from home several years ago. She was wild and undisciplined and there was nothing we could do, though we tried. We lost contact with her.”
Turning back to Barry, I asked, “Can you tell me what happened on the night the policemen came and found you?”
“No.”
“You can’t? Why not?”
“He said the devil would c
ome get me if I told. I promised to keep it a secret. I don’t want to be with the devil.”
“No, of course not, but who told you that?”
“He did.”
“Bear-bear, I want to make things right. It’s important that you tell me what you know about your mommy and that night especially.”
Tears formed in his big, hurt eyes. “No. I promised.”
“Promises made when people force you aren’t real promises,” I tried.
“Bear-bear,” his grandfather said, “Tell the policeman the truth. God hates lies worse than anything.”
“No,” the child replied stubbornly.
Ms. Renig with Child Protective Services spoke up next to me. “I think maybe Barry has had enough for now.”
“I agree,” said Mrs. Alexander, taking Barry’s hand and standing. “My grandson needs a nap.”
I stood as well, but kept my gaze on Barry’s face. “Bear-bear, if you ever want to talk about this, you go ahead and talk to your grandma or grandpa, or if you want to, you can talk to me about it. We’re friends now.”
“Okay. But I won’t break my promise. The devil will get me.”
“We can talk about that another day,” I said with a smile, offering the child my hand for a goodbye shake. “Maybe we can play catch sometime?”
“Is that a game?”
My heart lurched. The boy didn’t even know about something as simple as playing catch. “Yes. A fun game.”
Mrs. Alexander tugged at Barry’s hand. “Time to go, Bear-bear.”
He turned away from me and followed along as the Alexanders led the way out of the room. I turned to Ms. Renig. “That didn’t go so well.”
She smiled at me, and I had the impression, from the lines around her eyes, she’d seen a lot of pain in her job. “You have to remember, the boy’s been traumatized.”
“Yes, but he knows something.”
“He’ll tell you when he’s ready. Let his grandparents work on him for a while. I’m sure they want the truth, too.”
“Or maybe they just want to get this whole sordid business behind them,” I grumbled.
“Maybe. However, you can’t force things.”
We left it at that, but it was frustrating. I needed to know what the boy knew, and I needed to know it now. This had become a full-blown murder investigation, because we knew someone else was involved in Amy’s death. The man who threatened a four-year-old boy with hell was a suspect. We needed to find him.
Chapter Two
The next morning, I realized it had been a huge mistake to allow my partner to drive the police vehicle to the scene of the latest murder. She was reckless and completely unconcerned about other cars. Sure, we had our flasher in the window and the siren on, but we were in an unmarked car. People were slower to get out of the way than they would be for a marked police car. “Geez, slow the fuck down!”
She grinned at me and slewed the car on the wet road. A moment later, she was back in control, but her grin was a little false. I gripped the oh shit bar above the window and held on for dear life. Even a seat belt and air bags wouldn’t be enough if she lost control at this speed.
“God damn it, Piccolino! I said slow down!”
“Grow some balls, Striker!”
“I mean it. You’re going to kill us both. Now cut it out!”
“Or what?” she mocked. “You’re going to spank me?”
Where she’d gotten that, almost reading my mind, kind of threw me for a loop. But if a person ever deserved a spanking more than Piccolino, I couldn’t think of one.
Rain started again, pelting the windshield with big, drooling drops. She flicked the wipers on, but didn’t slow down in the least. We rounded a corner and fishtailed, but once again, she got control after a heart-stopping moment.
“You sure as hell need a spanking, you little brat.”
“Good luck with that. I know karate.”
“Not that it would do you any good.” We swerved and I saw my life flash before my eyes. “You are out of control, woman!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The car screeched to a halt, well, almost to a halt, just as it sideswiped a parked vehicle a block away from our destination. Piccolino’s mouth opened and shut a few times, and then she squeaked, “Oops.”
“Your ass is grass, Piccolino,” I told her. “Get out of the car.” My door was pinned closed against the crunched driver’s side door of the BMW she’d hit. Silently, her face pale, Piccolino got out of the car, and I awkwardly moved across the seats and got out behind her. There were no pedestrians and few moving cars along the street, probably due to the rainy weather. That was fortunate for my partner, because it was going to be bad enough reporting this MVA to Donati. Accidents happened when pursuing criminals, but we hadn’t been in pursuit, so there was no excuse for it this time.
I straightened my fedora and stared down at her, my brows drawn together.
“I’m sorry.”
I remained silent.
“Really. I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I’ve just never been so excited. Rolling to the scene of a homicide. I felt like I was in the big time, you know, like… I don’t know…”
“Starsky and Hutch.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. You crossed the line. This was no little fender-bender.” I pointed to the Beamer. “That guy’s paint job alone is going to cost a thousand bucks.”
“Do we have to say it was my fault?”
“It was your fault.”
“Well, kinda. And kinda not.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Lie? No. Just… don’t say anything about how fast I was going. If you don’t say anything, Donati will never know this was more than an unfortunate skid and crunch due to the weather.”
“I’ve had it about up to here with your attitude, Piccolino,” I told her, gesturing to the top of my head. “You deserve whatever you get from Donati.”
She bit her lower lip. “Do I deserve…maybe…a spanking?”
I snorted. “Donati would no sooner do that than fly to the moon.”
She smoothed the sides of her skirt from waist to thigh. It was a sexy move, sensual, emphasizing the curve of her hips. I didn’t miss it, though I would have been more comfortable had I done so. “But if I was punished in some way, wouldn’t that make up for getting in the accident?”
“I assure you, you will be punished. You’ll probably have a formal reprimand on your record.”
“But, Striker,” she pleaded, touching the lapel of my trench coat. “Those never go away! Please don’t tell on me. You said that I needed a spanking, wouldn’t that be enough?”
I hadn’t really meant it when I said it, though I’d been plenty mad enough to do it at the time. But now, it would have been a pre-meditated spanking. And I had the sneaking suspicion that Piccolino’s idea of a spanking was a little more akin to one of my previous girlfriends. She was kinda into it, but always a sexy spanking; never a punishment session. I have my kinks just like any guy, but I’d never spanked except in the bedroom—a room I’d never share with Piccolino. Would it do any good? Would she quit being so headstrong and acidic if she got punished outside of the chain of command? And, if she was trying to seduce me, as her bedroom eyes and the way she stood only a few inches away from me suggested, I could be biting off a big chunk of trouble.
The fact was, if I spanked her and she pressed charges, it would be my ass in a sling, not hers. “I don’t trust you,” I told her.
“Come on. I’m trustworthy.” She held up her hand in the Girl Scout salute. “I promise not to report you, if you promise not to report me. I think that’s fair. And you get to take a swat at my butt.”
She seemed sorry. In fact, she seemed desperately sorry. Maybe a spanking would have some effect on her. But it wouldn’t be the erotic spanking she was subtly suggesting. That would only encourage her.
“I don’t know…” Let her sweat.
“Please? Please just spank me and we’
ll call it a done deal?”
“We need to call in this MVA.”
“It can wait. If you spank me quickly, instead of chewing it over like a camel with its cud—”
“You are not making points, Piccolino.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m begging you, Striker. I know you want to do it. And, don’t I deserve it? I was reckless. I disobeyed the orders of a superior officer. You’re a Detective II, while I’m only a Detective I. That makes you my boss.”
I knew that, but wouldn’t have held it over her head. Still, what she said was true. “Okay.”
“There’s an alley right there. We can go there, behind the dumpster, and you can spank me.” She cringed a little as she said the words. I turned my head to look to where she’d pointed, but she grabbed my hand and urged me over in that direction. “Come on. We have to call in the MVA. Hurry up.”
We got to the area behind the beat up blue dumpster. There were no flies, and the dumpster had recently been emptied. Some construction stuff—two-by-fours and scraps of plywood—were leaning on the cement block walls. The scent of rain on the concrete and the wet wood was clean. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” I told her, disengaging my hand. “I hope you have a high pain threshold.”
“I do. I do. Now where do you want me?”
There were some plastic milk crates next to the dumpster, so I made quick work of setting the boxes one on top of the other. I sat and patted my lap. “Here.”
She eyed me, apparently wondering what she’d gotten herself into.
Her business attire was nearly as distracting as the casual street wear she’d worn the day before. The tight skirt she wore with a curve-hugging sweater skimmed over her like fog over poppies. “Are you wearing panties?”
That got her attention. “Yeah, of course! Why?”
“Skirt up. Leave your panties in place.”
“This is just a spanking, Striker, not a T&A show.”
I stood and made a show of straightening my trench coat. “If that’s the way you want it.” About two seconds after I started walking away, she grabbed my arm.
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