Stumbling on the Sand

by Jenna Rae

“How long,” Del wondered in an aside to Phan, “before those kids are in foster care because Jameson kills their mom?”

  Phan shook his head. “Or he kills her or one of the kids because she spent a single dime on her babies?”

  They reinterviewed the residents and business owners around the Shotwell Street crime scene. Del wished she knew where the primary crime scene was and whether she would ever know. Mikey had bled a lot at the site of his beating.

  As they wrapped up their interviews, Del stopped on the sidewalk and looked at a group of kids playing in front of yet another worn, gray apartment building decorated only with graffiti. Too young to be outside unsupervised, to Del’s mind, they sounded like happy little children anywhere, shouting, laughing, making silly noises. But the oldest two, maybe seven and nine, kept a wary eye on the surroundings. What did it cost a child to be on guard from such a young age? How old, Del couldn’t help but wonder, had Mikey Ocampo been when he’d first sported that guarded, careworn look?

  “Anything wrong?”

  Del heard the undercurrent of alarm in Phan’s voice and met his eyes.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Let’s head back.” In the car, he flicked a finger at her. “Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere.” She shook her head. “Do those kids have any chance?”

  Phan looked around and shrugged a question.

  “They deserve a hell of a lot better than this.”

  “Agreed.”

  They headed back for the station at a slow crawl along 17th Street. Del was itchy. When it was Phan’s turn to drive, she had too much time to think. She pushed her hair back off of her forehead.

  “What’s goin’ on, Mason?”

  She blew out hot breath. “Maybe Mikey was doomed from the start. I want to find his killer, but maybe he wouldn’t have been able to make a decent life for himself no matter what. It could have been some desperate kid just like Mikey who killed him. Another kid, and Mikey had five bucks on him and the kid needed it.”

  “Maybe.” Phan made a face. “But growing up in poverty doesn’t make it okay to kill people, or mean you’re necessarily going to—”

  “Obviously.”

  “And look at that seminary student. He grew up in a crappy neighborhood too, and by all accounts he was a decent guy. So maybe they do have a chance. Some of them.”

  “Of course.” Del nodded. “I’m not saying people are doomed. I just think we allow people to be set up for failure.”

  “I know. But what can we do? We try to keep people from getting away with killing each other. A guy kills his wife, we try to keep him from killing another one. What else are we supposed to do?”

  Del shrugged.

  “Besides,” Phan added, “with the gentrification, in five years the Mission will be completely different and we’ll be reduced to busting hipsters and tech nerds for drugs and domestics.”

  “You think?” Del wondered at his conversational left turn. Was he suggesting, however indirectly, that gentrification was contributing to the neighborhood’s tension and exacerbating decades-old problems? Or was he trying to distract her?

  Phan chucked his chin at a group of twenty-something yuppies lounging outside a coffee shop on 24th Street. Del realized how familiar a sight they’d become, the ironically grungy youngsters and their fixie bikes clustering on parking lots and on street corners.

  “I don’t know,” Del said, her gaze on a pair of red-clad Norteños up the block. “Culture clash and class warfare seem more likely.”

  “The guns and knives’ll only slow things down,” Phan claimed. “Money always wins, in the end. You can’t stay in a neighborhood you can’t afford, and the computer guys are coming in and driving up the prices. The gangs’ll have to head out.”

  “Maybe the engineers will need less policing.”

  “Worried about job security? Nah.” Phan laughed. “People are still people, and people like to kill each other.”

  Silenced by the sound of her own cynical thought in Phan’s voice, Del wondered how much longer either of them would be able to stay in the job and still be decent human beings. And what then? Del couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living and couldn’t imagine still being on the job in ten years.

  They headed in to the station to fill out more of the seemingly endless paperwork that comprised far too much of their jobs. It was necessary, of course, but Del had to force herself to do it without complaint. She looked over at one point and saw Phan frowning down at his own block letters. It looked like he was trying to read what he’d written to see if it made sense. She’d gotten lucky. She had a partner who was smart and a decent human being. Hopefully she wouldn’t fuck this up the way she’d fucked up everything else. Her stomach cramped, and she chomped another trio of antacids.

  Del’s stomach hurt so much and so often, she thought she would rather die than feel that pain for one more day. After work she did her usual cruising and wrote another unsent letter to Lola. After that she made a toaster waffle, thinking about Sofia Gonzalez standing over her sink. She caught herself looking at the kitchen window as if she half expected the peeper to be there. Sudden pain drew her mind away from that weird imagining. She looked at a large, sharp kitchen knife and wondered if it would hurt less if she cut her stomach out.

  “That’s crazy talk,” she told herself. “Time to do something really crazy like go to the doctor.” She broke into a ragged laugh. “I’m talking to myself now. About being crazy. I must really be sick.”

  She looked in on the dining room, which she’d transformed into a strange, angry shrine to Ernie White, and couldn’t face it. She lay in bed unsleeping and stared at the red numbers of her ancient clock radio, which she rarely used for waking up or for listening to music.

  “Mikey’s been dead for two weeks,” she whispered into the darkness. She didn’t say the rest but couldn’t stop thinking—she’d let Mikey down again. Hot tears ran down the sides of her face and into her hair until she curled up on her side with her hands wrapped protectively over her burning middle.

  She finally gave in and went to see Dr. Philipps, her general practitioner, on Tuesday afternoon. By then she was doubled over in pain. Philipps, shaking her oversized head, ran a few tests and pending definitive results gave a preliminary diagnosis: she had an ulcer. After lecturing Del on her eating habits and blood pressure, Philipps relented and gave a strained smile. Her dark brown eyes shone with concern.

  “Try eating an actual meal once in a while. Sleep for more than a couple of hours. You can’t do a good job on anything if you don’t take care of yourself.” Dr. Philipps was tiny, just under five feet tall, and she peered up at Del with a stern expression on her elfin face. “I don’t want to see you work yourself into an early grave.”

  Del nodded contritely. “You’re right. I know you are. You say this every time I see you.”

  “Have you considered listening to me?”

  At home an hour later, Del examined the prescriptions she’d picked up at the drugstore: antibiotics for two weeks, some kind of liquid medicine and another set of pills. Super, she thought, now I’m an old lady with a bag full of pills. It was just like after she got shot. Her body was letting her down again, only this time she was on her own with no Lola to take care of her. She read the instructions from the pharmacist and took two teaspoons of the liquid. She decided she’d start with the rest of the treatment tomorrow. Tonight it was time to go out and have fun, blow off some steam. This would apparently be her last hurrah before turning into Nana and echoing her slow descent back into dust.

  As she passed Lola’s house, Del noticed all the lights were off. Is she out at a party? Maybe she and that redhead are making love right now.

  She walked the two miles down to The Wild Side West on Cortland Avenue. The walk gave her time to think about the dozens of times she’d haunted the Bernal Heights bar before she’d met Lola. There was always something going on at Wild Side, and Del grinned at its saloon façade as sh
e approached. Light and music and women’s voices reached out to invite her in. Wild Side was packed, even though it was a weeknight. There’d been some kind of trivia game earlier in the evening, according to a posted sign, and Trivia Night always drew a crowd. Del ordered a beer and looked over the pulsing throng of chatting, flirting, dancing women.

  Who would she approach? Definitely not the redhead, even though she looked nothing like Lola’s new lover. The woman with the blue ponytail was too young. The cute Latina with the purple hair was too drunk. She felt like a shopper, looking over the goods. Like the perv choosing a new victim.

  One of the women he’d kidnapped had previously reported being raped, though no one had been arrested. Four peeping victims had confided that they’d been raped but hadn’t reported the assaults when they occurred. How many other victims had also been victims of sexual violence and not brought it up when reporting the peeper? Not one of the men who’d abused or raped any of their peeper’s victims had ever been arrested or jailed.

  Of course, Del reflected, something like ninety-seven percent of rapists never faced a single day in jail, so the failure of the justice system in any particular case wasn’t too surprising. And with a female victim, being a survivor of prior rape or sexual abuse wasn’t usually uncommon enough to serve as an effective differentiating feature. Still, the fact that so many of the reporting victims were self-identified survivors could be a pattern worth documenting and analyzing. Were the women targeted because of their prior experiences as victims? One of the kidnapped women had asked if she was wearing a target on her back, and the officer interviewing her had rushed to assure her, talking about coincidence and happenstance. But Del wasn’t so sure. Did the peeper—the man Del was still not entirely convinced was also the kidnapper—somehow sense some psychic scarring on victims? Was that what drew him to one woman and not another?

  Del thought about Ernie White. She’d bet he was the peeper and that he had a good eye for which women would make good victims. Was he born with that sensibility, or had he honed it over years of predatory practice?

  Del pushed the thought aside and tried to focus on the scene before her. It was hard to tease apart the practice of selecting a potential lover and doing a predatory survey. What did that say about her? Did guys, straight guys, look at a roomful of women and assess the best candidates for seduction? Did they worry that this was predatory?

  She scanned the roomful of women again, draining her beer and imagining herself a bad guy. Whom would she target? Looking at the room that way, she could clearly see the best victims. It was remarkably easy. That little brunette with the glassy eyes and ravaged fingernails, she was a good one. Del pushed away thoughts of Janet and her chewed-up nails and cuticles.

  There was a youngster, probably barely old enough to be in a bar, a slightly overweight girl with dark eyes and dyed pink hair. She sported fading fingertip bruises on the backs of her upper arms and wore double the recommended daily allowance of makeup. Was it to hide scars, or to cover fading bruises on her face or throat? Either way, the bruising and the tentative way she tried to strut marked her as a good victim. How long before Del was standing over her body? If the girl dated women exclusively, she might last a little longer—women were much less likely to kill than men, but there was no guarantee. Del shook her head. The girl might as well be wearing concentric circles on her forehead and a toe tag inside her obviously uncomfortable high heels.

  Is this how the predator feels, Del wondered again, walking around the Mission? Does he walk by each woman and assess her as a victim? Does he walk past every house, thinking, I’ll check this one tonight? That one tomorrow? Does he case them ahead of time, so he knows which ones are females living alone? Does he choose the women when he passes them on the street, or does he watch their homes and pick them that way?

  Unable to leave the case behind, Del had decided to abandon the bar for the night when a waitress walked up and handed her a whiskey.

  “Ah, I didn’t order this, ma’am.”

  “No, sweetie, she did.” The overworked server pointed vaguely at the crowded dance floor. “You have an admirer. Tight dress, red hair dye. And cutie, if it turns out you’re not into her, I admire you too.”

  Del sketched a wave, not sure at whom, and looked at the overfilled glass. She pulled out her wallet to offer a tip but the waitress was already gone. She didn’t usually drink hard liquor except at home, but it had been a long day. A long week. A long month. A long lifetime. Del eyed her watch. Almost midnight. Mikey had been dead for fifteen days. She upended the whiskey and remembered the first time she met Mac. She smiled and shook her head again, not sure she wanted to clear it. She’d just started wondering belatedly whether the booze would mix well with her ulcer medication, when a woman with teased auburn hair approached and stood uncomfortably close.

  “Hi,” she whispered, and Del had to lean close to hear her. “I’m sorry to just walk up to you like this, but, um, your gun is showing.”

  “What?” Del looked down. Sure enough, her weapon was poking out of her waistband. It could hardly have been visible from anywhere more than a foot away, but she adjusted her holster anyway. “Hey, thanks.”

  The woman sported the tight little black dress to which the waitress had referred and bright, sparkling brown eyes. Not a victim, Del thought. Insecure enough to wear too much makeup but self-assured enough to stand up for herself if pushed. Maybe.

  “Do I owe you a thanks?” Del waggled the empty tumbler, and a different passing waitress snagged it without a backward glance.

  “I wanted a reason to approach you.”

  “You could approach me with or without a drink, but thanks. Can I return the favor?”

  “I think I’ve had enough to drink. Now I’m looking for something else.”

  Del nodded, breaking eye contact. She looked for a graceful exit but was forestalled by an outstretched hand.

  “I’m Sara.”

  “Del.”

  Sara’s skin was soft and cool, and Del held her hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Was this a good idea? Hadn’t she just been about to go home and really focus on the case?

  She’s just another badge bunny. This is dumb. I have work to do.

  “You have nice hands.” Sara kept hold of Del’s palm, turned it up and ran lotion-smoothed fingertips along the sensitive skin of Del’s wrist.

  “And you’re alive!” She giggled and held a red-tipped digit to Del’s artery and pretended to count. “It’s speeding up. I wonder why?” She wrinkled her nose and winked.

  I could have her for the night. Take my mind off things.

  Sara was smiling up at her, licking her lips. Her abundant bosom spilled out of the black polyester sheath stretched over her spray-tanned skin. Four-inch heels brought her up to Del’s nose. Oddly, she smelled like Del’s Nana.

  “Are you wearing Shalimar?”

  “Wow, you have a sensitive sniffer.” Sara’s eyes widened. “You like it?”

  Del gestured, and Sara leaned even closer, tiptoeing to expose her neck to Del. She also exposed even more cleavage and a lacy, beribboned red bra. The women were interrupted by the waitress returning with another whiskey, which Del drank in one swallow.

  “Sure I can’t get you—?”

  “I’d prefer a dance, if you’re offering gifts.” Sara looked down, as if modestly.

  Del offered her daddy’s slow smile, and Sara reddened all the way down to her porn-star bra. It was too easy. Maybe choosing a lover wasn’t so different from choosing a victim. Sara looked confident but was easily manipulated.

  Del had seen it a hundred times. Little girls learned to please early on. Mothers taught the lessons without even realizing: smile, flirt, lean in, touch someone in just the right way, and you can get what you want. Attention, approval, an extra cookie, whatever—the best and sometimes only way for girls and women to get what they want was by pleasing someone more powerful than they. That was the lesson. What else did th
ey know? It was part of what made them such great victims.

  Convince women they are only as important as they make someone else feel, and they are ripe for the plucking, whether that’s exploitation or oppression or seduction or violence or murder or some cocktail of those things.

  Or was that too simple? It was Sara who’d approached Del, bought her a drink, offered another, pointed out her weapon. Who was seducing whom? Del let her smile fade. Janet had approached Del in this very bar a few years ago. She’d been feisty, overconfident, aggressive. Del had found it enchanting. Of course, Sara was no Janet, was she? Janet really was one of a kind. Del tried to imagine Lola walking into a bar in a fuck-me outfit and buying drinks for strangers she wanted to sleep with. It was cartoonish, ridiculous. Del felt her blood slamming around her body and pushed thoughts of Lola away.

  “So?” Sara smiled, tossing her carefully careless hair.

  “I’m waiting for a slow song,” Del said with an easy grin that belied her inner tension. “I’d like to get another whiff or two of you and that Shalimar.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  They danced, and Sara rubbed up against Del, who was trying to decide. Should she sleep with this girl or go home? It suddenly seemed like too much work, pretending to like this woman for more than her desirability. But Del was already entangled, wasn’t she? Or was she? Lola was tumbling around with that grinning idiotic ginger-haired woman, doing God knew what, and Del was supposed to just wait for her to get over whatever bee had flown into her bonnet? She knew the whiskey was making her mean-spirited, but she slugged down another when the waitress cruised by, this one a double.

  It was an hour later, in an expensively furnished, extraordinarily messy apartment on Ellsworth Street, that Del found herself making out with cute little badge bunny Sara and wishing she’d just gone home. There was nothing wrong with Sara. Sara was fine. She was bright and attractive and sexy. She was into Del or at least into being with a police officer, but Del couldn’t focus on her. Somehow, the pretty, responsive, soft-skinned woman came up short. Despite or maybe because of the Shalimar she didn’t smell right. Who wants to sleep with her grandmother? The night just didn’t feel right. Sara’s perfectly toned body was the wrong shape, somehow. Her hair wasn’t Lola’s, her skin wasn’t Lola’s, her lips weren’t Lola’s. While they were both still fully dressed, Del excused herself and escaped to the bathroom.