by Julie Miller
Kelsey’s compassion slowed her pace. “Those poor people.”
It was the bitterest part of a bad winter, and they lived on the street alongside dope dealers, pimps and prostitutes. Now, apparently, their one place of refuge was short on funds and volunteers. She looked into the eyes of some of the men standing in line. Dullness stared back.
“Those poor people know more about surviving out here than you do. At least they have the sense to get off the street when the sun goes down.”
Kelsey had stopped walking. Had the woman whose death she’d seen lived like this? Just trying to stay alive from one day to the next? Had that cold, pitiless room been her home, after all? Had the doll been pawned for a meal? Had she sold her body just to survive?
Could that faceless man with the cruel hands be one of these men?
Compassion stayed with her, but fear tempered it. Kelsey hugged her arms around her waist, feeling the chill more deeply than she had a minute ago.
She scanned the line now, looking for some spark of recognition from her nightmarish impression. She studied the twenty-some men lined up from the building’s cornerstone to the front steps where a charismatic man with a deeply receding hairline and salt and pepper beard shook each man’s hand and greeted him by name before inviting him inside.
She stared harder. Something about the hands…
“Kelsey.” She started at the hand on her shoulder, and realized he’d been calling her name. She blinked her focus back to blond hair and green eyes and that insistent tone. “You sure you parked on this block?”
“Yes, I… It’s…” Kelsey pointed to the street, then turned completely around. Ho boy. She’d had one of those rare, distracted moments when she could actually understand her flaky nickname. They’d gone too far. Banning fell into step beside her as they retraced their footsteps. “Who’s that man in the doorway?”
“Reverend Ulysses Wingate. He’s been running the mission for the past fifteen years or so. Your car?”
“I parked right—” she stopped “—here.”
A souped-up black Cadillac sat in the space where her little red car should be. For a moment, she felt light-headed, as shock drained the blood inside her. Just as quickly, temper fired her pulse. She threw her hands out in front of her. “Where’s my car?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I parked it right here. I’m positive.”
He pulled off his glove and touched the hood of the car. “Still warm.”
That meant it hadn’t been there long. That meant her car had been stolen. “I locked it. I always lock it. I still have the keys in my pocket. With all these people around, do you think anyone saw anything?”
Banning’s glare didn’t leave her much hope of a positive response. But he already had his cell phone out and had called to report the theft. He verified that there was no meter to run out, no reason to be towed. He relayed her license plate number as well as their current location.
“Are you always this much trouble to work with?” he asked, waiting for a response from the dispatcher.
“No.” Huddling inside her coat, she’d never missed her grandmother’s wisdom more than she did at that very moment. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
Chapter Four
“I’ll pass the word around to B and C shift.” Ed Watkins adjusted his flat blue cap low on his forehead and shrugged. “But if her car was stolen between four and five o’clock, then that thing’s already been taken to one of the local chop shops and stripped down for parts. It’s after six now. We’re not gonna find it.”
Merle listened to the sergeant’s report with half an ear and jotted the appropriate notes. This was pointless. His knee ached, his glasses had fogged up, and he hadn’t made any progress on either the stolen car or the murdered prostitutes. About the only thing he had succeeded in doing was keeping Kelsey Ryan safe from her own misguided intentions.
Which could turn into a full-time job at the rate things were going.
After walking into The Underground and finding her fighting off the advances of a man twice her size while that sleazeball Mort rifled through her things, Merle knew that keeping her in one piece would be no small accomplishment. Thank God he had come after her. The whole neighborhood had probably seen that red hair and plaid coat coming a mile away and pegged her as an easy mark.
He liked the idea of Kelsey Ryan’s car being the convenient victim of a stolen parts ring only marginally better than the idea that someone had followed her, known that was her car and had taken it to leave her deliberately stranded in no-man’s land.
And despite the glimpses of strength he’d seen in her, Merle got the idea that there was something vulnerable, well guarded and almost shy hidden inside her. She could talk tough all she wanted. But men like Mort and Edgar, Zero—and an unknown killer—would chew her up and spit her out before she ever knew what hit her.
After verifying the time on his watch, Merle took off his glasses and put them away. He’d sent Kelsey inside the mission almost an hour ago to get warmed up and out of range of Watkins’s lame jokes about The Flake losing track of her own car.
Once she’d finally quit arguing with him, she stood there shivering, her face pale except for the color whipped into her cheeks and tip of her nose by the wind. She’d tilted up her chin in a show of courage that didn’t quite fire up those fawn-colored eyes as the sergeant asked several routine questions of her. Frustrated as Merle was with her, he didn’t want to have to deal with shock on top of everything else. So he’d ignored her protests, introduced her to Reverend Wingate and sent her inside the building for safekeeping.
But there was little more he could do for her. From the time Kelsey had left her car to when they were back outside after visiting The Underground, this block of Kansas City had apparently been deserted. No one he’d interviewed had seen a thing. He didn’t think any of them were blind. A few might be crazy. But smart money said that someone had them too intimidated to admit anything to an outsider. Especially a cop.
Not even Sergeant Watkins, who was the regular patrol officer assigned to this neighborhood, could get anything out of potential witnesses beyond having seen a red car parked in front of the mission. But no one had seen anyone hanging around the car; no one had seen a break-in; no one had seen the red car drive away.
If those were the kinds of responses earlier investigators had gotten on the Holiday Hooker murders, it was no wonder the case was never solved. He wanted to find out who had that kind of power. Who could make an entire neighborhood close ranks and keep their mouths shut?
Who would have the courage to break that silence?
It annoyed him that he found himself glancing over his shoulder to the double doors where Kelsey Ryan had disappeared inside the mission.
“Hey, Detective.” Merle pulled his attention back to the short, pudgy cop, who didn’t seem to be as affected by the subzero windchill as anyone else on the street. Watkins pulled down the cuffs of his shearling-lined uniform jacket and rested his elbows on his gun butt and utility belt. The fifty-something cop’s posture sagged, and he looked tired. But then, it was the end of his shift. “You want me to file the report or are you gonna do it?”
“I called it in. I’ll handle the paperwork.” Merle closed his notebook and stuffed it and his pen back inside his jacket pocket. “How long have you been working this neighborhood, Watkins?”
“Twenty years. Outlasted three partners and two wives along the way.”
Maybe it wasn’t just the long day that made him seem so weary. “Twenty years, huh? So you were walking this beat back when each of those prostitutes was killed.”
Watkins laughed, but it sounded more like a curse. “I was even on duty when four of the bodies were found and helped work the scenes. Never gets any easier. Always the same—naked, not a mark on ’em except the bruises around the neck, eyes open and terrified. A frozen body’s a gruesome sight. You’d think nine deaths would’ve put ’em out of business by no
w.”
He patted his thick waist and let his dark eyes drift across the street to a couple of women, woefully under-dressed for the weather. One wore short shorts and thigh-high boots, the other a miniskirt that didn’t quite cover the top of her stockings.
The heated discussion between the tall black woman and the petite blonde snagged Merle’s curiosity, as well. “You know them?”
“The tall one calls herself Cleopatra. Blondie goes by Monique.” Watkins’s dough-boy face creased with sadness. “Life’s tough for the gals who work around these parts. I don’t cotton to them making a living that way. But nobody ought to have to die like that.”
“No. They shouldn’t.” Banning had seen the crime scene photos. The nine women had all been killed in an interior location, then dumped in alleyways and Dumpsters within a two-mile radius of the mission. There’d been no pattern in the victims’ racial backgrounds or physical characteristics. Their profession and a man who wanted them dead seemed to be the only thing they had in common.
The image of Kelsey Ryan shoving that box into the middle of his chest and daring him to ask questions flashed across his mind. Hell. Why not ask? What other leads did he have? “Say, Watkins—Ed—did you ever find a doll at any of the crime scenes?”
This time, the laugh was real. “A doll? Are you kidding? The first one we found—Jezebel was her street name—had a gold cross in her hand. You know, a charm on the end of a chain. None of the others I saw had even that much on ’em.”
“I read that the original investigators checked out Reverend Wingate because of that cross.”
“Yep.” Watkins hunched his shoulders against the cold and glanced over at the argument across the street that had just gone up about ten decibels in volume.
“You don’t want to do that!” the tall woman shouted, traipsing after the shorter one. The blond woman was crying. “You know what he’ll do.” It wasn’t an argument so much as one person trying to convince the other to heed her warning.
Merle turned back to the sergeant’s story. “The preacher didn’t know anything about the necklace. He had an airtight alibi, too. Jezebel was killed Christmas morning. Ulysses was running services in the mission all day.”
“With plenty of witnesses, I suppose.”
“Enough to clear his name. I’m not sure we ever had a solid suspect after that. And then, well, you know.” He shrugged. “These aren’t the people the city really cares about. They want us to find out who killed that baby girl from the landfill, not nine hookers.”
Merle definitely had his work cut out for him.
All of a sudden, Watkins perked up, like a dog with a fresh bone to gnaw on. “Hey, is that what The Flake’s helpin’ you with? Diggin’ up ghosts of old homicides? The new commissioner must be desperate.”
Knowing that Kelsey’s alleged psychic abilities and hit-and-miss successes in helping out had earned her that nickname throughout K.C.P.D. was nothing new. He’d even used that name himself on more than one occasion. But tonight, hearing it said out loud like a joke in Watkins’s insulting tone, the word Flake grated against his ears and bristled along the back of Merle’s neck.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d address her as Ms. Ryan.”
Watkins scoffed. “You’re not buying into that sideshow of hers, are you? Sometimes women claim they have something extra like that—to pull you in. But it’s only real on TV shows and sci-fi.”
He might not believe she could read things and pull clues out of thin air, but he believed in treating her with respect. He’d promised Captain Taylor. His mother would have his hide if he didn’t. And it felt like the right thing to do.
“She’s an official departmental consultant,” he explained, suspecting logic wouldn’t override Sergeant Watkins’s good-ol’-boy opinions. But an order from a higher authority would. “If Captain Taylor wants me to work with her on this, I’m going to do it. Now, I wouldn’t think of insulting your partner, Ed. So I expect the same courtesy from you.”
“Fine. Whatever.” He leaned in and whispered in a tone that reminded Banning of a veteran cop getting his gibes in on a rookie. “At least I know my partner’s not gonna fly off into la-la land and leave me hangin’.”
Merle’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but he never got the chance to question the need to wipe that condescending smirk off Watkins’s face.
“Monique!”
The petite, blond prostitute dashed into the street. Her friend followed a few steps, but a truck drove past and she retreated back to the curb.
“Officer? Can I talk to you a minute?” Monique ran right up to Merle and Ed. She swiped her teary eyes with the back of her hand and latched on to Merle’s sleeve. “I want to report a missing person.”
She reeked of perfume and cigarette smoke, and her long, painted nails dug into his arm. But he was more concerned about how young she looked beneath her runny mascara. “How old are you?” Merle asked. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head frantically, choking back a sob. “This isn’t about me. My roommate, Delilah, hasn’t come home for a couple of days. She got roughed up before Christmas by one of her johns, um…” She swallowed hard, catching herself. “I mean, her boyfriend. She checked into the mission to spend the night, so she could see the doctor. And—”
“Can you tell me her real name?” Merle asked. “Her boyfriend’s name?”
“Susan Cooper. I don’t know the guy’s name. We just call him Mr. H. I’ve seen him in the paper.”
“What does she look—”
“Now, Monique, what do you wanna worry these fine gentlemen for?” A man’s hands, with at least one ring on each finger, closed around Monique’s quaking shoulders and pried her loose. Merle raised his gaze to dark brown eyes and a fake smile. Zero.
“We were having a conversation.”
Zero wrapped his heavy arm around Monique and pulled her to his side. It might have passed for a supportive embrace if he couldn’t read the fear in her downcast eyes. A glance across the street told him Cleopatra didn’t seem any more thrilled that Zero had joined the conversation. The stocky black man’s slick drawl betrayed nothing but friendly confidence. “These men have a job to do, honey. We can’t be pestering them. Right, Detective? Sergeant?”
Maybe too friendly. Too confident.
Clearly, Zero and Ed Watkins were well acquainted with each other.
Monique whimpered in his embrace. “I just wanted to ask about Delilah.”
“I told you she went on vacation to see her little boy.” He winked at Merle, indicating Monique might be the one with the problem. “Delilah’s boy lives with foster parents. She went to spend Christmas with him.”
Merle’s protective hackles rose in full force, but Ed stepped in first. “I’ll handle this, Detective Banning.” He laid a hand on both Zero’s and Monique’s arms and turned them back toward the street. “Why don’t you go inside and find your partner. Ms. Ryan,” he added with all the sincerity of a rat. “I’ll keep an eye and ear out for her car and let you know if I find anything.”
Then he turned his back on Merle to escort the pimp and prostitute across the street. Fine. This was Watkins’s beat. Those were his people. If he had his own way of dealing with them, Merle wouldn’t step on his toes.
But he made a mental note to check the missing persons list when he reported for work in the morning.
MERLE STOOD in the main hallway of the Wingate Humanitarian Mission to unbutton his coat and shed his gloves. It saddened him to see the steady stream of destitute people filing in to the main dining room, checking in for a blanket or pillow or winter coat, and signing up for appointments with the doctor tomorrow.
His stomach twisted into the knot of guilt he’d carried with him for so many years. Were any of these people victims of his father’s selfish game? Had he cheated them out of a life savings? Put a low-rent apartment building out of business? Cost a job? Ruined a retirement?
Chances were that after twenty years, t
hese people were victims of other circumstances, some of their own doing, some at society’s mercy. But he still felt the need to atone for the sins of his father. He still felt compelled to make their world better. Safer. More secure.
“Detective Banning.” The Reverend Ulysses Wingate chose that moment to step out of his office and greet Merle with a hearty handshake. “Did you finally decide to come inside and warm yourself? Any luck with the stolen car? I’m sure sorry about that. If I’d been at the door sooner, I might have seen something. But we don’t open for dinner until five each night. And the staff usually works in their offices or the kitchen until then. Not a very observant group, I’m afraid.”
Merle couldn’t help but grin at the cosmic irony. Atone for his father’s sins? Then, voilà, he’s shaking hands with the minister? He waved aside the reverend’s apology; he’d earn his redemption another way. “Don’t worry about it. Looks like you’ve got your hands full here. K.C.P.D. will handle the theft.”
“I’m sure they’ll do a fine job.”
“Have you seen Ms. Ryan? The redhead I came in with?”
“I put her to work. Well, she volunteered and I didn’t say no.” He slapped Merle on the shoulder with a blustery laugh. “The Lord loves a volunteer.” Reverend Wingate led him over to the dining hall, and keeping one hand on his shoulder, pointed across the long rows of tables and chairs. “She’s over in the soup line, servin’ the rolls for dinner. We’ve got plenty tonight if you want to share a plate.”
Merle spotted Kelsey behind the glass-and-stainless-steel cafeteria counter. She wore plastic gloves to pick rolls from the giant basket in front of her and hand them over the partition to the people going through the line. She exchanged words and a smile with each guest and seemed peculiarly energized for a woman who claimed to see murders.