Floaters

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Yeah?”

  “You know a hooker named Jane Kelly?”

  She could almost hear the famous Letch Boggs memory computer clickety-clacking. Then he said, “You mean Dawn? Dawn Coyote? What happened?”

  “She got stabbed to death, is what happened,” Anne said. “Disemboweled.”

  Letch was thunderstruck. “Where? When? Who did it?”

  “That’s what we gotta find out,” Anne said. “We identified her by faxing her prints to CII. She had no ID, no purse. Nothing but a wad of trick money in her underwear. Along with your business card.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Letch said. “He did her.”

  “Who?”

  “Her old man. Oliver Mantleberry.”

  “A pimp?”

  “I was gonna serve a warrant on him tomorrow. She made a pimping report for me. He did her!”

  “Aw-right!” Anne said. “Now we’re cooking!”

  “I’m coming down,” Letch said. “See you in your office in an hour.”

  “I’ll have Mantleberry’s rap sheet by then. Know where he lives?”

  “Oh, yeah. And I wanna be there.” Then he added, “She wasn’t a bad little babe, Dawn. I wanna take down Oliver Mantleberry. Me.”

  “I’ll be waiting here with coffee and Pepto-Bismol.”

  Before he hung up, Letch said, “Where’d it happen? Dawn’s apartment?”

  “No, on the steps of an apartment building in Fashion Hills. We don’t know what she was doing up there.”

  Letch said, “What’s the address?”

  When she told him, Letch said, “Blaze Duvall.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A friend of hers. That’s who lives there.”

  “You got it wrong for once,” Anne said. “There was nobody by that name in the building.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “A tenant named Mary Ellen Singleton.”

  “What was her apartment number, this Mary Ellen Singleton?”

  “Apartment Two-A.”

  “Hah!” Letch said.

  He blew so much wind with the “Hah!” that Anne could almost smell the garlic right through the telephone.

  —

  Her apartment was no longer the neat and tidy scene that Detective Anne Zorn had admired. Blaze was working faster than she’d ever worked in her life.

  It hadn’t been easy rounding up cardboard boxes on Easter Sunday morning. Her clothes, enough of them, were already in her Mustang—on the floor, in the trunk, stacked on the backseat all the way to the convertible top.

  She left her answering machine turned on, and it wasn’t until she was nearly out the door that she decided where to go. The important thing was, she was getting out of there. Away from Oliver Mantleberry. That’s who it had to have been.

  She’d never forget how the light from the lower patio glinted off his huge round skull. She’d never forget the panic of running in place, a killer grabbing at the hem of her robe. She knew she’d dream about that. Maybe it would become the recurring nightmare of her life. That unbelievable powerlessness. Running from death, but getting nowhere. Running from murder.

  She didn’t doubt that the pimp would come for her. If he knew where Dawn was, he had a good idea who Blaze was, Dawn’s old buddy from the massage parlor. Dawn would have shot off her mouth to her pimp, of course she would. When Dawn was slamming speedballs she’d run her mouth about anything.

  But Dawn was dead now. As dead as Rosie. As dead as Blaze’s mother. As dead as Blaze would be if she let herself fall into the hands of Oliver Mantleberry. He’d butchered Dawn for naming him as a pimp. What would he do to a woman who’d witnessed him commit murder?

  She opened a suitcase on the bed and began packing undergarments and cosmetics. When she was nearly ready, she took Anne Zorn’s business card from her purse and dialed the number, intending to leave a brief message on her voice mail or with an operator. It never occurred to Blaze that Anne would not be home in bed yet. Detectives had to sleep sometime.

  She was stunned when Anne answered.

  There was silence for a moment and then Blaze said, “It’s Mary Ellen Singleton.”

  Anne, who was still waiting for Letch Boggs to arrive, said, “Yes?”

  “I…I, uh, thought I should leave a message for you. For when you came to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m still working,” Anne said. “You have some information for me?”

  “No, but you said you might be wanting to talk to me further, and I wanted to tell you I’ll be gone awhile.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “To visit my sister up in L.A.”

  “Where in L.A.?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “In case I need to talk to you, can I have the address and phone number?”

  “She’s got a new phone number. Unlisted. I lost it. I’ll call you with it when I get there.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Uh, Rosie. Rosie Singleton.”

  “Her address?”

  The first Los Angeles street that came to mind: “Sunset Boulevard. One-seven-seven-nine Sunset.”

  “East or west?”

  “West.”

  Anne Zorn didn’t know diddly about Los Angeles geography, but knew when she was being shined. She said, “There’s no such address.”

  “Well…I could be mistaken about the number. But I’ll phone you when I get it.”

  “When’re you leaving?”

  “As soon as I hang up.”

  Goddamn! Anne was frantic. There was nothing else to do but fire. She said, “We’ll protect you. Don’t leave.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I know you were a friend of Dawn Coyote. Or did you know her as Jane Kelly?”

  Blaze almost hung up.

  “Are you there?” Anne asked. “We’ll protect you. You saw him. You saw him kill her, didn’t you?”

  “I’m outta here!” Blaze screamed it into the phone.

  “He can’t get to you.”

  “Bullshit!” Blaze said. “Tell it to Dawn!”

  “Don’t go, Blaze,” Anne said. “You owe this to Dawn. And to yourself.”

  “I’ll call you later,” Blaze said. “Good-bye, Detective Zorn.”

  The instant Blaze hung up, Anne called Communications, but by the time a Western Division patrol unit got to Blaze Duvall’s address in Fashion Hills, she was gone. She’d fled so fast that she left some of her favorite cosmetics behind. But she didn’t leave her tape recorder or her nickel-plated revolver.

  —

  Anne had already been given the bad news by the responding patrol officer by the time Letch Boggs entered her cubicle in the Homicide Unit.

  He shook hands and sat down on her desk.

  God, his hand was soft! She had to move back from his breath.

  “Yeah, you still got ’em,” he said. “Legs.”

  “You wanna catch Oliver Mantleberry or flirt?”

  “Where’s your team?”

  “Having breakfast. Or is it lunch? I don’t even know what time it is.”

  “It’s Easter. They’re having brunch.”

  “All I know is, I just got some bad news.”

  “What news?”

  “Blaze Duvall’s bailed. She called me and said she was outta here.”

  “Why?”

  “Scared of Oliver Mantleberry. What do you think?”

  “Could she be in on it? The murder, I mean?”

  “Very doubtful,” Anne said. “I think the bloody robe we found would fit her perfectly. I think she was with Dawn during or right after the attack and ran for her life. Right out of her robe.”

  “Imagine that!” Letch said, imagining it.

  “Don’t you ever stop?”

  “Did you try to get her to stay?”

  “Yeah, I told her we’d protect her.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “In ef
fect, Fuck you.”

  “You sure she’s gone?”

  “I sent a patrol unit to stall her.”

  “Shit.”

  “She said she’d call me and maybe she will. She’s not your run-of-the-mill tweaked-out hooker. She’s intelligent.”

  “A looker?”

  “Not your type, Letch, but yeah, definitely a looker.”

  “Good body?”

  “Come on, Letch!” Anne said.

  “Okay, okay,” Letch said. “Wish your partners’d hurry up.”

  “Me, too,” Anne said. “Maybe we can get to Oliver before he gets rid of all the evidence. I sure hope the address you got is a good one.”

  “I sure hope he tries to run,” Letch said. “I get to carry a shotgun, okay?”

  When they heard the sound of male voices coming down the hall toward the office, Letch said, “I wouldn’t wanna work here. I don’t like this team concept, with one Spanish speaker, one female, one black. I suppose you got one Nazi and one skinhead? Your own little Rainbow Coalition, right?”

  “An independent contractor. That’s you, Letch.”

  “Yeah, I gotta work alone much as possible so I don’t have to share my little secrets. Of course, I’d make an exception for you, Annie. Sure you don’t wanna come back to Vice and pair up with old Letch? All the girls love to work with me.”

  “Remember Holly Doolittle?” Anne asked. “The tall one who worked the john detail with me?”

  “Yeah, nice, healthy chest,” Letch said, leering. “She was hot for my bod.”

  “We’re still pals, all us girls that were street whores together. Holly, she used to wear a locket and in it was a picture of those Vegas magicians, Siegfried and Roy.”

  “So?”

  “Every time she shagged a job working with you, she’d kiss that little gold charm and say, Please, Siegfried and Roy, make him disappear! That’s how hot she was for your bod.”

  To change the subject, he looked around at the decor of the homicide office and said, “You know, you should have our puke-green walls and we should have your color. Mauve. More appropriate color for a vice office. Like a baboon’s ass or rotten meat. Very erotic, but not too fruity.”

  —

  It took some courage for a man to wear a straw boater, even on Easter Sunday, even to a colorful event like a yacht-club brunch. But Ambrose wore one every year, the only member who did. The hat had a navy-blue pin-dot silk band and nicely complemented his tomato-red nautical-print silk necktie, Easter being just about the only time he’d wear something with an anchor pattern. His pinfeather jacket was a traditional pale blue; it was worn with navy slacks and oxblood loafers.

  He’d enjoyed the brunch in years past, but he knew today he’d hate it. All the defeatist talk about how Black Magic was going to demolish the competition, the most fearsome black vessel since the kidnapping of Helen of Troy launched a thousand black ships.

  Well, one way or the other, it’d all be over soon. Until then he just had to put one foot in front of the other. He had to go to the office, attend real-estate open houses, participate in real-estate caravans, and otherwise strive to make a decent living in this bleak market. And not think about the coming week.

  In short, he had to try to lead the same conservative, uneventful life that everyone thought he led. People were forever trying to marry him off to Sharon Downey, a sweet but needy widow he’d dated two years ago. And before her it had been Carolyn Wilberforce, whose husband had left her $10 million in high-yield bonds. He liked both women and enjoyed their company, but sex with them had been calamitous, even though each was patient and understanding. The truth was that only Blaze Duvall had restored the sexual potency he’d feared was gone forever.

  When he arrived at the club, Ambrose walked into the trophy room, stood before the glass case, and was flooded with memories. Long ago he’d anthropomorphized that piece of hammered silver. He thought of the trophy as a living thing, and he wondered if others over the years—other Keepers of the Cup—had similar feelings.

  Members of the club who’d never understood the significance of the world’s oldest sporting trophy, nor of the honor and glory connected with it, liked to denigrate any reverence directed at the silver vessel.

  “The Cup has no memories, no affinity,” he’d heard one say.

  But Ambrose didn’t believe it. They hadn’t been there in Portugal, hadn’t felt the excitement everywhere. They hadn’t seen fishermen come out in Nova Scotia, men of the sea squinting to read the names of ancient sailors who’d tamed the wind for this trophy.

  They hadn’t seen the young girl in Gothenburg who’d said to him in unaccented English, “Someday I shall be a sailor and challenge for the America’s Cup!”

  And in addition to those moments—those moving, unforgettable moments—there had been adventures. On their way to Marble House in Newport, Rhode Island, a huge snowstorm had diverted them to Hartford. And the America’s Cup had had to spend the night in a city jail because there had not been sufficient security at the local inn.

  They’d had the most fun, the Cup and he, on their last Ireland trip, spending four days at an old farm in Ulster from where they’d visited all of the Northern Ireland yacht clubs. And then they’d traveled by train to Dublin, to the Royal Irish Yacht Club. And on to the Royal Cork Yacht Club, founded in 1720, the oldest yacht club in the world. There had been 350 boats ocean-racing on the day they were there.

  If the San Diego Yacht Club could successfully defend against New Zealand, Ambrose had ideas that he’d revealed to no one yet. Dazzling ideas. He dreamed of encouraging a challenge from a Baltic nation. He could envision challenges from Finland and Estonia, not to mention the Scandinavian countries. And Germany, of course. In 1992 Russia had made a try without sufficient resources behind it, and he had ideas that might persuade it to try again. He wanted to take the Cup to places it had never been, to drum up world interest. Airlines like SAS should commit to sponsorship. Participation in the Cup regatta would benefit each country’s economy and lift the national pride. He hoped to convince them all.

  Here in America people hadn’t a clue. In Dallas, a customs officer checking them in from London had actually tried to make him take the Cup apart to search it for contraband! An American Airlines field representative had arrived on the scene to quell the ensuing disturbance. It was the closest Ambrose had ever come to engaging in physical violence. It had been an outrage.

  Cynical San Diego Yacht Club members called the regatta a soap opera and gave it nicknames: “As the Anchor Drags” or “The Coma Off Point Loma.” They despised Bill Koch, most of them, and many didn’t even like Dennis Conner. “Ego, Fear and Greed” is the America’s Cup motto, they liked to say.

  Of course he knew the only reason they’d selected him as Keeper of the Cup was because nobody else had wanted it as badly as he had. And he was a local businessman, a man without a family who was willing to devote himself to it heart and soul. He had never been high in the yacht-club food chain, but he was safe and absolutely dependable. He didn’t care anymore why he’d been chosen. All he knew was that the Cup was more alive to him than any human being he’d ever known.

  Perhaps no one who hadn’t been there could ever understand. You had to have been to the Isle of Wight, back with the Cup from whence it came. Back to visit the Royal Yacht Squadron, a quaint old club with a separate ladies’ entrance and a members’ room where no ladies were allowed. A club whose commodore was usually knighted. On that trip the Cup had stayed in the wine cellar of the castle with security provided by the British Army—and five thousand people had come to see the America’s Cup!

  The Cup had no memories? Ambrose Lutterworth thought it did. Yes, he’d anthropomorphized that silver trophy; of course he had. But as Keeper of the Cup, he was its sole protector. He was keeping it for another man, a man not yet alive, who would gaze at it a hundred years from now with as much love. Someone very like him, perhaps.

  Ambrose had to reach into the
breast pocket of his pinfeather jacket for the tomato-red silk handkerchief. He dabbed the tears furtively, but he needn’t have worried. He was all alone in the room. Except for the America’s Cup.

  —

  There was a group of young adults practicing self-defense on the beach in Crown Point that afternoon. Fortney had to stop the boat for Leeds because two of the girls wore damp T-shirts over bikini bottoms. Leeds had already worn panda grooves around his eyes watching a pair of honeymooners screwing their brains out on the fifth-floor balcony of the high-rise hotel in Quivira Basin.

  “Alfred Hitchcock did movies about peepers like you,” Fortney informed him. “And they all ended up in trouble.”

  “Look at the one in pink!” Leeds handed Fortney the glasses. “Legs all the way up to heaven!”

  “To purgatory if your old lady ever gets wise to you,” Fortney said.

  “Wanna look for a while?”

  “Naw, I’m sick of watching those mutant ninja guppies doing kung fu. Let’s do something really different. Let’s do some police work.”

  “Mellow out,” Leeds said. “Open my bag and have some a my wife’s tollhouse cookies.”

  “My first ex-wife made tollhouse cookies,” Fortney informed him. “They could’ve killed a horse, especially if you chucked one at its head. That woman had no business in the kitchen. I hear she finally found something she can do. Runs around with a gang of geeks that throw chicken blood on abortion clinics. They better never let her cook the chicken, that’s all I can say.”

  Leeds put down the binoculars and said, “Let’s go. Now they’re doing tai chi or something. No interesting muscle movement.”

  Fortney steered the patrol boat into Sail Bay, cruising along the shoreline, dodging all the boating bozos who had rented boats for the afternoon with no idea of what they were doing.

  Fortney particularly liked the Mission Bay view of San Diego topography. Today the quixotic blue dome of the University of San Diego’s Immaculata Church flashed Easter sunlight appropriately.

  But after they nearly got broadsided by a particularly inept Catamaran Clifford in a rented cat with blue-striped sails, Leeds said, “These cretins’re more dangerous than high-absorbency tampons. Let’s boogie.”