by T. E. Woods
His sixty-two-year-old Hungarian housekeeper nodded. “I no ask,” she said. “You are boss. Tell me what you want. I will tell. He will cook.” She winked. “I bring you toast, ja?”
“You take good care of me, Hildy.” Vogel reached for his coffee. “Don’t ever stop.”
She handed him the morning paper and headed toward the kitchen. Vogel pulled out the sports section and grimaced.
“ ‘A Wing and a Prayer,’ ” he said, reading the headline out loud. “ ‘Can Washington Back into Playoffs?’ ” Vogel set the paper aside and glared at the blonde across the table. “Sportswriters are getting wittier in their humiliating. But then, you give them so many opportunities to practice.”
Ingrid Stinson-Vogel looked up from her dry toast and yogurt. “And good morning to you, dear.” She nodded toward his mug. “This isn’t a longshoreman’s diner.”
Vogel looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows and watched three kayakers paddling across silver-streaked waves. “I like my mug. Saves Hildy the trouble of refilling some rose-petaled thimble again and again.” He tapped the newspaper. “You have a plan?”
Ingrid dabbed her napkin across collagen-plumped lips and smiled at her husband of twenty-five years. “The plan is to beat Portland. Last game of the season. A win puts us in the playoffs.” She used both hands to lift her hair off her shoulders. “I’m CEO of this team, Reinhart. Let me do my job.”
Vogel’s voice knocked the warmth out of the yellow and white room Ingrid’s designer had worked so hard to make cheery. “You’re one game over .500. If Salt Lake hadn’t tripped on their dicks, your season would be over. Like everything else in your life, you’re where you are because it was handed to you.” He quieted when Hildy returned and placed his omelet, potatoes, and toast in front of him. He thanked her with a wink and told her to go enjoy her own breakfast.
He waited until the housekeeper was gone. “I’m sole owner of the Washington Wings. And the sole owner is telling one very lucky CEO that he wants his team in the playoffs or changes will be made.” He glared across the table. “Am I clear?”
Ingrid threw her shoulders back. “Are you threatening me, Reinhart?”
Vogel leaned over his plate, closed his eyes, and breathed in the heaven of cheese and garlic. He grabbed a fork, loaded a bite of hash browns, and smiled as he chewed. “I don’t threaten, Ingrid. I announce.”
Chapter Four
Mort descended the concrete stairs to the basement of the Westmoreland Methodist Church and was greeted by an attractive dark-haired woman seated behind a folding table and wearing a “Hi, My Name Is Nancy” nametag. He introduced himself and asked if he was in the right place for the CLIP meeting.
“Is this official business?” Her smile offered a warm understanding. “Or have you lost someone?”
Mort balked at her question. For a moment he wondered what Nancy knew about his losses. Then he realized that CLIP stood for Children Lost in Prostitution, which made her question obvious.
“Your organization’s been recommended.”
Nancy dropped her voice and leaned her heart-shaped face forward. “This about the Trixie murders?”
There were times Mort regretted the dogged determination of Seattle’s journalistic community. “I’m here to learn what I can.”
“Then you’re in luck. Our speaker today is Charlotte Conklin. She founded CLIP.” Nancy grabbed a sticky-backed nametag and wrote “Mort” in heavy black marker. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll introduce you to Charlotte after the meeting.”
Mort thanked her and entered what looked like a teen meeting room. The cinder block walls were covered with Bible verses sprayed graffiti-style in vibrant colors. The far end of the room had a raised platform. Mort estimated sixty folding chairs faced it, nearly every one filled with a somber-looking adult, most female. Despite the crowd, the room was quiet. He glanced at his watch and took a seat in the back row. In less than three minutes Nancy took the stage and what little whispering there was ceased.
“Welcome, everyone,” she said. “My name is Nancy Mader. Thanks for coming.” She glanced toward the small windows set high in the basement walls. “It’s a lovely spring afternoon and I’m sure we all wish we could be somewhere else.” Nancy inhaled long and deep, apparently hesitant to begin. “My daughter, Valerie Amber, was just thirteen years old when her father and I discovered she was smoking marijuana with friends after school.” She gave a weak smile. “That wasn’t supposed to happen to us. Matt, that’s my husband, was an aviation engineer and I sold real estate. We had a wonderful life and Valerie Amber was its center. She ran track and played soccer. We went as a family to church every week. Drugs weren’t supposed to touch our lives.”
Mort glanced around the room and saw dozens of people nodding their heads.
“Our daughter’s pediatrician told us not to worry. Valerie Amber was a straight-A student. The doctor assured us it was just a phase. ‘Don’t overreact and it’ll all blow over.’ ” Nancy looked down. “But it didn’t. Two days after her fourteenth birthday, I found her passed out in her bathroom in a pool of vomit. The emergency room doctor told us she was filled with OxyContin, a drug neither my husband nor I had heard of. That started the rehab rumba.”
Exhausted parents moaned in solidarity.
“Valerie Amber did four weeks in-patient here in Seattle. She used nine days after she got out. Then came a Yakima treatment center for three months. Weekly family meetings were filled with our daughter’s promises. Two weeks after she got home, I found syringes and rubber tubing stuffed behind the teddy bears in her bedroom. So we sent her to Utah. They guaranteed success. She ran away after three days. Called us from a bus stop and begged to come home. So we tried tough love.”
Mort looked at the room filled with worn-out souls. Their heads were bowed, but he knew they connected with every word.
“We told her she could come home. But if we caught her doing drugs she’d be out on the street.” Nancy’s voiced cracked. “I came home from grocery shopping a week later and found six kids stoned in my daughter’s bedroom. I threw them all out. I shrieked and swore and damned them all to hell.” Tears streamed down Nancy’s face. “My fourteen-year-old daughter stormed out with them. We didn’t see her for nearly nine months. When we did, it was on a slab in the King County morgue.” Nancy’s whisper was picked up by the podium’s small microphone. “Valerie Amber had become a prostitute to support her heroin habit. A customer beat her to death.” Nancy looked straight at Mort. “The police never found him. Five weeks later I buried my husband next to her.” She looked down at her hands. “His heart simply stopped beating. I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I heard about CLIP.”
The enthralled group offered Nancy a smattering of vocal support.
“That was almost six months ago and I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned I’m not alone. I’m not helpless.” Nancy’s smile was wide and genuine. “CLIP brought me hope out of despair. That’s why I consider it an honor and a blessing … I’m allowed to say ‘blessing’ in a church basement, right?”
The crowd laughed and Mort sensed a collective relaxation.
“It’s my blessing to introduce tonight’s speaker. She’s the woman who founded CLIP sixteen years ago. Hers is a story of hope in the midst of all this darkness. Ladies and gentlemen, Charlotte Conklin.”
Mort joined the crowd in applause and watched a well-dressed woman cross the stage to hug Nancy. His police instincts kicked in. Mid-forties, five foot five, 130 to 135 pounds, sandy brown hair. Another instinct surprised him when he noticed perfect legs beneath her knee-length skirt. He pulled his attention back and, like the rest of the group, settled in to listen.
Charlotte Conklin spent the next thirty minutes discussing the plague of prostitution. She told stories of boys and girls who, for whatever reason, felt they had no other option but to sell their bodies to survive. She spoke of those who used them. The pimps. The madams. The customers. The consequences of ad
dictions, pregnancies, diseases, and suicides. Mort’s mind drifted to Allie. He offered a silent wish that his daughter had found some other way to make it in this world.
Charlotte wrapped up. “And so we gather. In church basements and town libraries and sometimes in our own kitchens. We tell our stories. We support one another as we search. Sometimes for our children.” She offered a gentle glance in Nancy’s direction. “And sometimes for meaning. But we are always together. And we’ll stay together until our children are safe.”
The room erupted in applause and Charlotte inched her way down the aisle. Mort was impressed at the time she gave each person lined up to meet her. Handshakes and hugs. Speaking and listening. He was pleased when Nancy pulled her away, whispered in her ear, and pointed in his direction.
“So the police are here, are they?” Her eyes were very blue. Mort liked that she wore little makeup. “Come to announce a citywide crackdown? I’m Charlotte Conklin.”
Mort admired her handshake. Firm and sure. “Mort Grant, Seattle Homicide.” He nodded toward Nancy. “Your friend thought I could learn something from you.”
Charlotte’s smile was replaced by a furrowed brow. “Trixie, no doubt. How can we help?”
Mort shrugged. “Like I said, I’m homicide. What I know about prostitution you could put in your eye and not even feel. My guys in Vice can tell me all I need to know about busting a prostitute, but nothing about who they are. You’ve read the articles. It’s no secret who we’re looking for. I figure your group’s a good place to get to know my killer.”
She locked eyes with him and Mort’s balance shivered.
“If we stay here, we won’t be able to talk for several hours,” she told him. “Parents with lost children like to linger with kindred wounded.”
Mort looked over her shoulder and saw dozens of people waiting. He turned to Nancy. “Can you make our excuses, please? Blame it on the cops.”
Twenty minutes later Mort threw a wave to Mauser, who tended a cozy neighborhood bar filled with cribbage-dealing, Scrabble-playing white collars. He escorted Charlotte to a booth in the corner. A large African American man with tight gray curls looked up from his crossword puzzle with a double take.
Mort shrugged off his suit coat. “Charlotte Conklin, I’d like you to meet—”
“Oh, my,” she interrupted. “You’re L. Jackson Clark.” Charlotte turned to Mort. “You didn’t say.” She turned back to the baffled black man staring quizzically at Mort. “I just finished reading The Prophet Next Door. Brilliant. I thought nothing would top your Listen to It All, but this one did.”
Larry shook the woman’s hand as he struggled to stand in the booth.
“Sit, sit,” Charlotte urged. “Mort, you didn’t say.”
“No, Mort.” Larry raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t.”
“Let’s all relax.” He stepped aside so Charlotte could enter the booth, then slid in beside her. “I didn’t know she was a fan. Hell, I didn’t think anyone except students read your stuff, Larry. And that’s only because you make ’em.”
Charlotte looked puzzled. “He’s on the New York Times bestseller list year after year.” She smiled at the man seated across from her. “Your books have given me comfort and hope during some very difficult times. I hope you know how cherished you are by millions.”
Larry bowed his head. “Kind words, indeed.” He pushed his crossword puzzle aside. “Now tell me what such a lovely woman is doing with Officer Dunderhead.”
“She’s teaching me about hookers.” Mort sensed her flinch at his flippant comment. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. It normally takes me several hours to reveal my coarser side.” Her eyes relaxed and Mort turned back to his friend. “Charlotte is the founder of an organization that connects people whose kids work as prostitutes.”
“Are you talking about CLIP?” Larry asked. “I’ve met people from your group. Fine work you’re doing.”
Charlotte lowered her glance and Mort felt a tug in the middle of his chest. He coughed it clear and signaled for the waitress.
“High praise from you, Dr. Clark,” she said.
“I’m Larry to my friends. Is this about the Trixie mess?”
A young redhead in jeans and a tank top came to their table. Mort ordered Guinness for himself and Larry. Charlotte asked the waitress to make it three and Mort’s chest tugged again. He rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms on the table.
“It’s no secret we’re looking for a prostitute.” Mort didn’t share the DNA evidence. “Help me understand what kind of woman she might be.”
“Do you mean what kind of woman becomes a prostitute? Or what kind of prostitute becomes a killer?” Charlotte leaned back against the booth.
“Let’s start with the former,” he said.
“That’s easy. The truth of the matter is any woman is capable of becoming a prostitute. All it takes is desperation.”
“Not a career path one dreams about,” Larry remarked. “I’m sure each has her own personal tragedy. Abandonment, drugs, children to feed. It’s the unfortunate reality of our species that there will always be those willing to prey upon the anguish of others.”
Charlotte nodded. “And they’re getting younger. Last month I got a boy into foster care. He was twelve years old and had been on the streets for three months.”
“Where are his folks?” Larry asked.
“On the road,” Charlotte answered. “The boy describes them as meth heads. And he tells me he’s got a fourteen-year-old sister.”
“But Trixie’s an adult,” Mort pointed out. “I don’t see a kid overcoming a grown male. What can you tell me about what a woman in the life would be like?”
Charlotte stared into her beer. Mort glanced at her hands and noticed she wore no rings.
“If Trixie’s been a prostitute any time at all, I would best categorize her as the walking dead.” Her voice was filled with sympathy. “These women detach themselves from their inner core.” She raised her eyes to Larry. “From their souls, to use your language.” Charlotte turned to Mort. “They dissociate from their bodies. They tell themselves it’s simply a way to get paid. They become empty shells doing what they must until they’re able to go home and drug themselves into a numbed-out void.”
Larry agreed. “The only other alternative is to acknowledge you’re being used as a masturbatory aid. I can’t imagine anything more dehumanizing.”
“Back to Trixie.” Mort alternated his glance between the two of them. “You’ve read the details?”
“You’re talking about the bodies found kneeling and tied?” Charlotte sipped her beer.
“Yes, I know about that.”
Larry squirmed. “Wish I could say I didn’t. What’s your point?”
“My point is, with all due respect, it doesn’t sound like the act of someone who’s an unfeeling empty shell.” Mort reached for a handful of peanuts. “Trussing someone like hunted game is a pretty serious statement. Like somebody on a mission.”
Charlotte nodded. “You’re right.” She grabbed her purse and asked Mort to let her out of the booth. “Give me a minute to think about that.” She excused herself and headed toward the ladies’ room.
Mort sat back down. “Sorry about bringing her, Larry. I’ll come back after I drop her off.”
Larry leaned back and grinned.
“What?” Mort asked.
Larry said nothing.
“Will you tell me what’s tickling your larger-than-need-be ass or am I supposed to sit here looking at your piss-poor imitation of the Cheshire cat?”
“How long have we been meeting on Thursdays to do the crossword puzzle?”
“Since the days I had to worry about what the desk sergeant thought of me.” Mort took a long pull of Guinness. “Why?”
“Every Thursday at five thirty. Without fail. When’s the last time you brought someone with you?”
Mort shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s usually just you and me.”
“It’s always just y
ou and me. And out of the blue you bring a charming lady who turns your legendary ability to focus into shredded tissue.”
Blood rose in Mort’s cheeks. “I’m having no trouble concentrating, Professor Clark. What, you jealous? Afraid someone’s going to steal me away from the one highlight of your nonexistent social life?”
Larry’s grin grew wider. “I’m having lunch with the queen of Jordan next week. She’s in New York and wants to discuss bringing me to her country for an extended speaking tour. She’s sending a plane. I come here on Thursdays to save you from yet another night of sawing big boards into little ones all alone in your basement. Now tell me why you brought her.”
“I’m on a case. She’s got insights I need.”
“You don’t have an office?” Larry’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“I just met her. We needed to talk, it’s Thursday, and it was getting close to five thirty. I didn’t want to leave you sitting here like a teenager without a prom date.”
“Bull-fucking-shit.” The learned philosopher and esteemed religious scholar leaned forward. “You’re smitten. You brought her here to show her off.”
Something flared inside Mort. It wasn’t anger, but it heated his guts. He saw Charlotte returning and growled across the table, “Behave yourself, will you? She’s helping me with the case. That’s it.”
Both men rose as she neared the table.
“Sit, please.” Charlotte pulled her bag onto her shoulder. “I didn’t realize the time.” She turned to Larry. “I can’t tell you how lovely it is to meet you. I hope to see you again.”
“If I have any luck left in this all-too-fleeting life, you will. The pleasure is all mine.”
Mort watched his friend struggle to keep his self-satisfaction within acceptable limits.
Charlotte turned toward Mort. “I’ll think more about your question. Can I call you?”
Mort reached inside his jacket, pulled out a card, and scribbled on the back. “My cell. It’s the easiest way to reach me. Where can I drop you?”