“Yeah,” Jesse said. “Maybe she did.”
“You have anything to do with it?”
“With what?”
“With him not hitting her anymore.”
Jesse shrugged.
“You had a talk with him, didn’t you,” Molly said.
Jesse smiled.
“Nothing official,” he said.
“And, let me guess,” Molly said. “You told him if he ever touched her unkindly again you would do something really scary to him.”
“I’m the chief of police in this town, Moll. I can’t go around threatening the very citizens I’m sworn to protect.”
“Of course you can’t,” Molly said. “Cop named Kelly called from Boston. Said he had an address for that phone number, if you want to go visit.”
“Good.”
“Suit still on surveillance in Boston?” Molly said.
“No.”
“Good,” Molly said. “It’s been mucking up the vacation schedules.”
“It has,” Jesse said
“This call from Kelly, is it about Billie?”
“I hope so.”
“You getting anywhere?”
“I think so.”
“We got an official suspect yet?”
“No.”
“Are we planning not to talk about it,” Molly said, “until we know what we’re talking about?”
“It’s an approach I’m experimenting with,” Jesse said. “I’m going into Boston. I’ll be gone most of the day. We got any police business to talk about before I go?”
“We might want to talk about how come I mostly run the department and you get the chief’s salary.”
“Sexism,” Jesse said, “would be my guess.”
Molly smiled and left the office. Jesse finished his coffee and phoned Kelly.
“It’s an address in Brighton,” Kelly said. “I’ll meet you in front of the new Star Market in the shopping center on Western Ave.”
“An hour,” Jesse said.
48
They were in Kelly’s car, in front of a gray three-decker in Brighton.
“Pollinger’s alibi holds up,” Kelly said. “Tour company says he was in London when Billie got killed.”
Jesse nodded.
“What’s this kid’s name?” he said.
“Phone listing is D. P. Davis.”
“Dawn,” Jesse said.
“Maybe.”
The building had been painted brown a long time ago. Much of the paint had flaked away and a lot of bare gray clapboard was showing. There was no front yard. The first of the three front steps was hard against the sidewalk. The name Davis and the number 3A were written with black Magic Marker above one of the doorbells. Jesse rang it. Nothing happened.
“You’re a small-town cop,” Kelly said. “You don’t know how to do it right.”
He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there. Nothing happened.
“That how it’s done?” Jesse said.
“Could be no one home,” Kelly said.
“Or the bell’s broken.”
“But the front door’s unlocked,” Kelly said.
“Wow,” Jesse said.
“A trained professional,” Kelly said.
They went into the dank hallway and up two flights of sagging stairs. The stairwell was dark. There was a burned-out lightbulb in an old porcelain ceiling fixture at each landing. At the dark top of the stairs Jesse knocked on the door.
“It’s good practice,” he said. “How else do I learn?”
He knocked again. There was the sound of movement. Then silence. Then the door opened on its chain.
A young female voice said, “Come back later.”
The door started to shut but Jesse put his foot in the opening.
“Dawn Davis?”
“What do you want?”
“Boston Police,” Kelly said.
He held up his badge.
“Police?”
“Yep.”
“It’s too dark,” she said. “I can’t see what you’re holding up.”
Kelly put the badge into the door opening.
“You got a light in there?” he said.
“I guess so.”
“Turn it on,” he said.
There was silence for a moment, and then a light went on inside the apartment. The girl was a shadow in the narrow door opening. She stared at the badge for a time.
“Whaddya want?” she said.
“We want to come in and talk with you,” Kelly said.
“About what?”
“About whether or not to kick in this door and bust you as a material witness in a homicide investigation,” Kelly said.
“I didn’t kill nobody,” the girl said.
“Open the fucking door,” Jesse said.
The girl didn’t answer for a moment, then she made a shadowy movement that might have been a shrug.
“Okay,” she said. “Get your foot out so I can take the chain off.”
The shades were down. The room was dark except for a light from the bare bulb of a table lamp on the floor. A cookstove was against the back wall, and a sink. The floor was a brick-pattern linoleum, scuffed away in places to show the narrow floorboards underneath. There was a box spring and mattress with no sheets and a thick down comforter rumpled with sleep. There were clothes piled on the floor. A half-open door revealed a narrow bathroom with tile walls and an old tub.
“You ought to charge more,” Kelly said.
“For what?” the girl said.
She was a small girl, with big dark eyes that dominated her face. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt. The sleeves were too long and concealed her hands. She was barefooted and, except for a hint of bosom under the sweatshirt, looked about nine.
“Dawn,” Jesse said. “We’ve talked with T. P. Pollinger.”
“Who?”
Jesse realized that she might not know who Pollinger was. Just a john, at an address. One of many.
“Money manager in the Back Bay,” Jesse said. “I followed you there on Monday, after Alan Garner gave you the address.”
She bent down and picked up a pack of Virginia Slims, got a cigarette out of the pack, got a butane lighter out of her pocket, and lit the cigarette.
“So?”
“So we got prostitution if we want to arrest you,” Kelly said.
“So?”
Jesse looked at Kelly. They both smiled. She was a little girl alone in a run-down apartment with two men, and she was being tough. They both knew that the bravado of young kids was rooted mostly in ignorance. If they just braved it out they could get away with it. She was wrong this time, but both of them admired her a little.
“So,” Jesse said. “We don’t want to do that if you don’t make us. What we want is Garner.”
She stared at both of them.
“What do you want Alan for?”
“Do you know a girl named Billie Bishop?” Jesse said.
“No. Why are you after Alan?”
“He might be involved in a homicide we’re investigating,” Kelly said.
“Alan wouldn’t kill anybody.”
Kelly sighed and took his handcuffs from his belt.
“Dawn Davis,” Kelly said. “You are under arrest for prostitution. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to assist you during questioning . . .”
“Hey, come on,” Dawn said.
“Turn around,” Kelly said. “Put your hands together behind your back.”
“Hey. No. Wait a minute, what do you want to know?”
“Is Alan Garner your pimp?” Jesse said.
“Well, he’s not really a pimp. I mean, you know. He’s nice.”
“Does he arrange for you to meet men, and does he take a portion of the money you receive for sexual favors?” Jesse said.
“Yes.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“Alan?”
“Un-huh.”
“Around,” she said.
“He pick you up?” Kelly said.
“Yes. He bought me lunch, and we talked. He was really nice.”
“Were you soliciting?”
“No.”
“Did he pick you up near the shelter?”
“Yes. It’s like we were going along in the same direction and we started talking.”
“He initiate?” Kelly said
“What?”
“He start talking first?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know. I guess so. I wouldn’t have just started talking to some guy.”
“Unless you’d become a working girl,” Kelly said.
“I wasn’t then, honest to God.”
“That start with Garner?” Jesse said.
“I guess so.”
Both men were quiet. Kelly put the cuffs back on his belt at the small of his back.
“He said, like, where did I live, and I go, like, I’m staying at the shelter. And he says did I run away. And I said, like, of course and he says he’s helped a bunch of girls like me.”
She was talking to Jesse. Even though he’d sworn at her when they first came. Now he seemed much nicer than the other cop that was going to handcuff her. The other cop looked mean, like he might be laughing at her. But Jesse had kind eyes and he leaned forward, nodding gently, like he was interested in her.
“And?” Jesse said.
“He got me this place to stay.”
“You pay the rent?” Kelly said.
“No,” the girl said. “I don’t. Alan does for me. He gives me money, too.”
“He ever come on to you?”
“No. He’s never been like that. He’s really, really nice.”
“Do they give money to you?”
“The men I meet? No, I guess they give it to Alan.”
“You like Alan?” Jesse said.
“Alan’s the nicest person I’ve ever met,” she said.
49
“What are you going to do about that girl you found?” Lilly said.
They were sitting on Jesse’s deck, over the harbor, looking across to Paradise Neck, as the evening settled, and the space above the water turned a faint translucent blue. Lilly was drinking white wine. Jesse had a Coke.
“Dawn Davis,” he said.
“Can you send her home?”
“She wouldn’t tell us where she was from.”
“She’d rather be a whore than go home?”
“Yep.”
“Or go to jail?”
“Yep.”
“Is anybody looking for her?” Lilly said.
“Kelly checked Missing Persons, and if that’s her real name, there’s no paper on her.”
“Can’t you fingerprint her?”
“Did,” Jesse said. “There’s no match on file. It doesn’t identify her. It only tells us that there’s no match on file.”
“Which means she hasn’t been arrested before.”
“Probably,” Jesse said.
“How old do you think she is?” Lilly said.
“Fifteen, maybe.”
“You could contact youth services,” Lilly said.
“Sure,” Jesse said.
“You don’t think much of them,” Lilly said.
“No.”
“You could arrest her, couldn’t you? For prostitution?”
“Yep.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“No.”
“A fifteen-year-old girl can’t be left to her own devices,” Lilly said.
“We dropped her off at the shelter,” Jesse said. “With Sister Mary John.”
“And if she runs away from the shelter?”
“We told her we’d arrest her.”
“But she might anyway,” Lilly said. “She doesn’t seem entirely law-abiding.”
“True.”
“What if she runs off? Can you still arrest whatsisname?”
“Garner?”
“Yes.”
“We still have Mr. Pollinger,” Jesse said. “He’s not going anywhere, and we can use him to nail Garner.”
With evening the heat had receded, and the salt breeze off the harbor made the deck comfortable. Jesse had his feet on the railing.
“Are you going to arrest Garner?” Lilly said.
“Sooner or later,” Jesse said.
“Why are you waiting?”
Lilly’s glass was empty. Jesse stood and filled her glass and got himself another Coke.
“Won’t that keep you awake?” Lilly said.
“Gotta drink something,” Jesse said.
He handed the wineglass to Lilly and sat down and put his feet back up on the rail. Early evening. End of day. Friday night. On the deck. The water, murmuring. A good-looking woman whom he liked, the slowly dwindling view of the neck across the black water. He should be having a drink. It was exactly the time for a drink. Exactly the situation.
“So why are you waiting to arrest Garner?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I don’t want to stir things up until I know what I’m stirring.”
“It’s still about Billie Bishop, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a theory?”
Jesse drank a little Coke. It had caffeine in it. It tasted like it should give him a pleasant jolt. There was none.
“Alan Garner is almost certainly recruiting runaway girls to prostitution. He doesn’t seem like your standard street pimp. He treats them nice, doesn’t come on to them, puts them up in a cheap apartment, and rents them out on a call basis. Maybe to a specialized market.”
“Men who like very young girls.”
“Yes. Alan works for a mobster named Gino Fish. Gino is an acquaintance of Norman Shaw, the novelist. Shaw lives in Paradise.”
“Do you think that Garner recruited Billie Bishop?”
“Maybe.”
“For this Fish person?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that Gino Fish is supplying adolescent girls to Norman Shaw?” Lilly said.
“I have no idea. I’ve met Mrs. Shaw and she would certainly be sufficient for me.”
“You know that has nothing to do with it,” Lilly said.
“I know.”
“Do you think he might have sent Billie Bishop to Norman Shaw, which is how she ended up in Paradise?”
“In the lake,” Jesse said.
“Yes. Do you think?”
“What I think,” Jesse said, “is that I’m not going to jostle any of them, until I’ve got enough to get them all.”
“Do you know who they all are?” Lilly said.
“Not yet.”
50
“I had a thought,” Jesse said to Suitcase Simpson.
“Excellent,” Simpson said.
“Wise guys don’t make sergeant,” Jesse said. “What I was thinking was that if Norman Shaw was banging kids like Billie, where would he do it?”
“His house?”
“You think Mrs. Shaw would have a problem with that?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So if he’s doing it, it must be someplace else.”
“You really think he’s involved?”
“No. I really t
hink he isn’t,” Jesse said. “But I don’t know he isn’t. I want to know. It’s where the chain of connection stops.”
“Billie Bishop to Alan Garner to Gino Fish to Shaw,” Simpson said.
“Sort of.”
“Not much of a chain,” Simpson said.
“Everybody’s a critic,” Jesse said. “If you had a teenaged beauty you wanted to score, where would you go?”
“Not my high school,” Simpson said.
Jesse smiled.
“I guess I’d take her to a motel,” Simpson said.
Jesse nodded. “You want to learn several things,” he said. “You want to learn if a guy named Norman Shaw has registered there, in, say, the last six months, whatever they got for records.”
“Would he use his real name?” Simpson said.
“Probably not,” Jesse said. “So he couldn’t use a credit card. Try to find who registered and paid cash.”
“Hotels keep records like that?” Simpson said.
“Some do. Some don’t,” Jesse said. “Sometimes you can be lucky. You’ll get a clerk who remembers.”
“Shaw’s pretty recognizable,” Simpson said. “Even if he gave a false name and paid cash.”
“So what would you do about that?” Jesse said. “If you were him?”
“Disguise?”
Jesse smiled.
“Ask if they remember a guy with a fake nose and glasses,” he said.
“Really?”
“Suit, I’m kidding you. Be easier if he had the girl register.”
“And if he was real careful,” Simpson said, “he’d have her register at one of those places where you can park right in front of the door and go in your room once you got a key.”
“Maybe you should start with that kind of motel, close to Paradise, and then circle out. Get a picture of Shaw. And take one of Billie. Show both of them.”
“You’re pulling me off shift again?”
“Special assignment,” Jesse said.
“Guys are getting kind of annoyed,” Simpson said, “covering for me.”
“Un-huh.”
“We don’t even know if Shaw’s got anything to do with it,” Simpson said.
“That’s true.”
“There’s a thousand motels around here.”
“Un-huh.”
“Jeez, on those TV real-life cop shows they don’t do this. They got all kinds of guys with microscopes and computers figuring shit out.”
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