by Mike McKay
Mark pretended he was unhappy and shook his head with disapproval: “you did it again, Sarge?”
“Well, sorry. The bitch had no drugs on her! What do you want me to do?” Alex said apologetically.
“I told you one hundred times, you bloody clown. Do whatever. Just: I don't! Need! To know! OK, Sarge, I will show you one more time how to do it properly.” He turned to Lien, “I am so sorry, lady. You are probably mistaken. There was no plastic film in the towel. No film at all. And to make sure you have absolutely no drugs on you, I will call our Police doctor now. He will check you… How to put it politely… From inside. All by the rules; we will have the witnesses, and a video camera, and take all the photos, and all. I have to tell you right away: if the doctor suddenly finds the drugs (and he will, trust me on this, all our doctors are very good) – it will be an absolute proof, right? Should we call the doctor, or bravely assume that the little bag on the table is yours and save you all the trouble?” Mark started enjoying being ‘the crooked FBI man.’ Lien looked at them in disbelief. She was not crying anymore. She was horrified.
“OK, lady,” Alex waved his hand as if inviting Lien to forget about the horrifying doctor check idea, “crack or no crack, what's the bloody difference? As you see, with your Charles Smith – we have an ironclad case. The watch, the telephone, the fingerprints… If I were you, – I would make a deal.”
“What deal?”
“You plea guilty of a manslaughter. Let say, you did not want to kill the men, but the stuff you used was of poor quality. You bought the cheap unchecked shite from some unknown dealer. Happens. Six accounts of manslaughter will put you in a labor camp for just fifteen years or so.”
“Six? Six accounts?” Lien whispered.
“And how many do you expect, darling? We can't have these cases open forever! The Sheriff is unhappy. The District Attorney is unhappy. Now, the FBI is unhappy. It's good, Mister Pendergrass and our Station Chief are good old friends…”
“I am not sure we should pin all six on her,” now Mark had to play the ‘cautious’ part of the crooked FBI Agent role, “what if she makes a statement on camera, but later – denies the other five cases?”
“No, sir. She will do nothing stupid. If she does not plea for the six cases of manslaughter, we will go for a first-degree murder. Premeditated! Six accounts! And she will get twenty-five to life. No parole.” Alex turned to Lien: “let me explain you the difference between the fifteen and the twenty-five, baby. The fifteen – you will be doing in a female labor camp. It's no spa resort, but almost survivable. If you behave yourself, they even let you go after fourteen years or so. The twenty-five is not only ten years longer than the fifteen. You are a registered hooker, right? Because of such predicament, darling, if you go twenty-five without the possibility of parole, you won't be in a female camp. I was just telling Mister Pendergrass. They have a new system, apparently. You will end up in a male camp. Federal coal mines! They run convicts pretty darn hard in those coal mines. Even the bunks are under ground – easier to guard, anyhow… Are you ready to serve fifty men every day? And do regular abortions – with hot aluminum spoon? Let's put it this way: the chances you survive all twenty-five years are slim to none. And even if you do – you come out a total mental and physical cripple. Got the picture, young lady?”
Lien nodded quietly.
“So if you got it right,” Sarge continued, “be a good girl and let's start memorizing the other five cases. Mister Pendergrass will check you, and then we will record your statement on video.”
“Wait a moment,” Mark said, “I'm just thinking, Sarge. We can't pin all six on her.”
“Why not, sir?”
“What if it's not her? Imagine, she is gone to the camp, but we get a case number seven? The same M.O.?”
“Oh come on! You will lie something to the DA. No big deal.”
“No. I don't like it. The case number seven, we can play around it, but if somebody else got poisoned and robbed with the same M.O. after it, – the shit will hit the fan!”
“You are right, sir. Sorry, I didn't think about it. We need a backup.”
“Miss Lien,” Mark said in indecisive tone, “you are working under Joe Vo, right?”
“Right,” she nodded.
“OK, I tell you something. We have information the robber is one of the Joe's hookers. Maybe, just maybe, it is not you. Well, if you tell us everything you know about Joe Vo, and specifically about all the call girls who work for him, we only pin one manslaughter on you. You will get five years, max. If you go to the labor camp, and the killings stop – great. And if the killings continue, we will have our way out. We will tell the DA you are a copycat.”
“I… I told you, sir. I have no idea why this Charles, or whoever, – died on me. I just picked up his things… And I have nothing to do with any other killings. Yeah, I am a hooker. But not a murderer.”
“OK, I tell you further more. If you give us a strong lead to the actual killer of the other five men, I can use my good relations with the CSIs and tell them to go easy on some evidence. They can close their eyes on the fingerprints, for starters. As for the wallet and the gold – we nicely put them back on the stiff. And you will be free to go.”
“…OK, sir. I… don't want to be in the labor camp… Even for five years.”
“If you really want to skip the labor camp thingy, tell us everything,” Alex said, “every bit of info about Joe, please. And everything about all his girls. I mean: everything. Names, addresses, habits, how much they charge, what lipstick they use, and so on.”
“I tell you, Sarge, and then Joe will give me a knife…”
“I would not worry about Joe, young lady. Whatever you say, stays between us. He will never know, unless you decide to tell him yourself. Besides, I am not sure if a twenty-five in the federal coal mine is any better than a knife. At least, with the knife, you die fast. And – reasonably painless.”
“OK, I will tell you, but…” she attempted to bargain. She was visibly in better spirits now. It was the entire trick: first explain that the situation is hopeless, and then – give some hope, without actually promising anything.
“No ‘buts,’ lady. Start singing. The camera is rolling now,” Alex pressed a button on the remote.
The hooker sheepishly nodded and started her ‘song.’ She described how the organization worked. Joe Vo had eight ‘pass-girls’ under him, but the total structure contained more than hundred hookers. Jen Lien herself controlled eleven unlicensed girls in three locations both sides of the C.E.King Parkway. She was dropping the names and addresses, while Alex and Mark jotted their notes asking clarifying questions from time to time. The video would be transcribed and passed on to the real Vice for extra intel, but considering the way they made the hooker talk, none of this could be admissible in courts.
Jen moved on giving information about the hookers she controlled personally and suddenly mentioned: “there was one more under me, but she is gone now…”
“How is she ‘gone?’ Run away?” Alex asked.
“Killed. With a client. A serial killer, they said. Your FBI boys should know, right?”
“What was her name?”
“Mel.”
“Surname?”
“I'm what – a notary public? Sorry, Sarge. I mean: in our work, we don't use surnames. Bad for business…”
“What's her home address?”
“Somewhere in the Garret Road Slum, north of the Sheldon-Res. I didn't care much from where she is from exactly, as soon as she is in one of my houses each afternoon.”
“What would happen if one of your girls does not show up one day?”
“For your education, Sarge, there is a thingy. It's called ‘telephone!’ Besides the jokes, usually I pass the word to Joe, and he sends his ‘boys’,” she expressed the quotation marks with her fingers, “they are paid to fix such things. Why should I do it myself?”
“How do you know Mel is dead?”
“Joe
saw something on TV. He told me: go to the bloody funerals and find out. Sure, it was her. The casket was shut, but I saw the photo.”
“What about her client?”
“A vet? With a prosthetic leg? Made him too. It was the boy I brought to Mel on the evening she was killed. Interesting, he asked Joe for this particular girl. I want only Mel, he said. Didn't want to see any other. He didn't bargain and paid the right price, and Mel was free that night, so I said: no probs, it's a deal. I though, some other guy told the vet Mel was good. Some kind of fancy sex, or something like this. A bit strange, they ended up in the bloody forest. As if he didn't want to use the room.”
“Did you ask the vet's name?”
“Nick, he said. I didn't ask for the surname. Only at the cemetery I saw it: Hobson. Yeah, sure…”
Alex reached into his pocket and pressed a button on his phone. Thirty seconds later the phone produced a melody, and Alex jolted to the corridor as if to take an urgent call. Immediately after this he knocked on the glass and waved Mark to come out. It was a trick they sometimes played if they needed to cut an interrogation short.
“Do you think she is telling the truth?” Mark asked Alex after carefully shutting the interrogation room door.
“We did not tell her anything about the funerals' video. She volunteered these details herself.”
“Right. So we confirm the female victim was a hooker, and the late Nick Hobson – her client. But we still haven't got the girl's surname or address. Do you think Miss Lien knows them, but does not want to tell us?”
“Not really, Mark. She's right. In this type of business, the surnames and addresses – are a liability. The less you know, the better you sleep.”
“Should we approach this Joe Vo fellow?”
“If I were you, I would skip on it for now. He is way smarter than his hookers, Mark.”
“I agree. He will make a square face and tell us that all this is a vivid imagination of Miss Lien. And then – will ask for a lawyer. I can bet you my right arm, he has a real shark at his full service. We only should approach Vo if we get stuck completely. She said, Mel was from the north of the GRS? Let's do this: you continue with Lien for another hour, then go have some sleep. You are off-duty tomorrow, right? Meanwhile, I will call Kim. It seems we have to make another walk around his beat.”
“Sounds like a plan. What exactly you will be looking for in the Garret Road Slum?”
“I will make decision while on the bike. For starters, we can get the list of the registered SSP and go show them the vic's photo. If a hooker in Mesa somehow remembered her face, the hookers in the Garret may know her too…”
“Should I let Lien go? The deal is a deal, after all. Besides, there is no dead body we can show to the Judge, anyway. You have either the dead body or the dead case, so the mafia says.”
“Will Lien talk? To the others, I mean?”
“Don't think so. She sang us enough on video. If she admits this conversation in front of her buddies, she will be history in no time. And: she understands this…”
“OK, then. Ah, one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“That stuff, about the female convicts being sent to the male labor camps… Is it true, or just – your imagination?”
“Just imagination, Mark. They are not quite ready for such an atrocity. Although, the discussion is ongoing if they should collect some volunteers in the female camps and open regulated brothels in the male camps.”
“What for?”
“Well, they want to make sure the convicts cut enough coal. It seems, the sticks stopped working, so they want to try a carrot – for a change…”
Mark returned to his office and dialed Kim's phone.
“I am not in the Beat – some family fight in the Slum, sir. It should not take long. Please come directly to the office, we have… Yeah, it should be open,” the young Deputy sounded strangely shy on the last sentence.
One hour later, as Mark rode in, the Beat door was unlocked, as promised. Probably, Tan was here, despite he should be off-duty today, Mark thought. Then, he stepped through the door and whistled in disbelieve. Inside, there were some unimaginable changes. The tile floor, which was covered with usual grit during his last visit, was now perfectly shiny. The deputies' desks looked somewhat neater. A low coffee table was set against the wall, and the former pile of dog-eared reports had migrated to it from the desks. A standard-issue Police tablet, with an USB keyboard and a mouse, had been parked next to the pile.
“May I help you, sir?” a female voice asked, and a head suddenly appeared from behind the desks. “Oh, good morning, sir! You must be the Special Agent Pendergrass, from the FBI? Kim called about you coming, sir.”
Mark recognized her instantly. This was the legless vet from the roadside Korean cafe. Now he spotted the same battered skateboard, two wooden blocks, and the red donation bucket – neatly parked under the coffee table. The girl crawled from behind the desks. Instead of the full service uniform she was wearing back at the cafe, today she was dressed in dark-blue Navy T-shirt and utility trousers, crudely converted into shorts.
“Yes. Mark Pendergrass,” Mark replied, extending his arm for a shake. “Back at the cafe, we did not ask about your name…”
The girl shook Mark's hand. “My name is Katherine Bowen. Call me Kate, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Please drop ‘sir’ and call me Mark.”
“OK, sir… I meant: Mark. By the way, did I scare you by jumping from under the desk? It wasn't a prank. I was sorting out the mess in the drawers…”
“No problems, Kate. I am not scared that easily… I just somehow expected to see Deputy Tan here. Kim did not tell me, who would be in-charge of the Beat today.”
“Oh, I am not ‘in-charge,’ nothing like it, sir… Sorry: Mark. Just helping out a bit… By the way, Kim said, he would be back shortly. If you don't mind, have a seat. Would you like some green tea?”
“Yes, please. Tea is a good idea.” Mark made a move towards the arm-chairs in the waiting area of the Beat, but hesitated, wondering if he needed to offer any help in the tea-making process. He discovered that the legless girl was quite par to the task and all the supplies had been already strategically placed around. A minute later, Kate threw her truncated body into the second arm-chair and was pouring hot water from a thermal flask into a teapot. This was not a real green tea, of course, but a local substitute: a mix of some bush leaves and mint. The real green tea would be far too expensive for a humble Police beat.
“It does look like you are in-charge here,” Mark commented. “Naturally, the clean floor is your handiwork, right? This Beat has not been as neat from the time it was commissioned.”
“Well, the floor was not entirely my achievement. Kim asked if I can help them with the paperwork. Well, I told the deputies: if you want me to do the papers, we must do the floor first. They come to the office in the morning and immediately leave for some call in the Slum, and I have to sit in this mess? Yesterday we had a D-day. The boys were carrying the water and such, and I took care of the deck scrubbing. The Navy way! At least, now I can move around without getting all sorts of crap on my pants. And after the floor was done, I am going now through their case reports. Amazing, how much mess they have accumulated.”
“Ah! So Kim invited you to work at the Beat? As an unpaid volunteer?”
“More or less.”
Mark smiled. “Back at the cafe, when Kim said: ‘see you,’ I didn't realize he was going to finish his soup and chase after you!”
“Oh, he didn't chase,” she smiled back. “He is too much of a gentleman to chase the girls, unless they are criminals. It happened by pure chance.”