Night Songs

by Penny Mickelbury

  “What the hell’s eating her?” Bobby whispered even though the door to the Think Tank was closed and Gianna and Eric were gone long enough to be half way down the hall.

  “I told you what. She’s pissed off in a big way about us being moved into the Chief’s office,” Kenny said authoritatively.

  “That’s not why she was staring at these phone numbers like she was,” Cassie said positioning herself in front the blackboard, scrutinizing the numbers. “Where was she looking? I swear she saw something that rang her bell...”

  “Oh, Miss Thing, you are so dramatic.” This from the drama queen extraordinaire. “I’ll bet it’s something domestic, like she’s having problems with her lover,” Tim added.

  “You really think she’s gay?” Bobby queried.

  “Of course she is,” Cassie and Tim insisted in unison.

  “Well,” Kenny offered, “we’ve never seen her with a guy.”

  “You’ve never seen me with a guy, either, and I’m not gay,” Lynda shot at him with disdain. “That’s a stupid thing to say, Kenny Chang.”

  “I’ve never seen you with anything but a crime report,” Kenny shot back, stung by her reproach.

  “But I have seen the lieutenant with a woman,” Cassie casually threw into the conversational lull. “Saturday afternoon.” She had everyone’s total and complete attention.

  “What’s she look like?” asked Bobby.

  “Major league fine,” said Cassie with so much feeling that they all laughed at her. “There were four of them at this outdoor cafe. The lieutenant and her woman, and these other two women, and they were all major league fine.” Cassie described Mimi, Beverly and Sylvia in detail, and the way in which, at the end of the meal, Gianna joined Mimi in her red 1969 Karmann Ghia convertible. “What I wouldn’t give for a woman like one of them,” she said wistfully.

  “Me too!” said Bobby with feeling.

  “You gotta let the chips fall were they fall, Anna. You know that. Besides, what exactly are you worried about anyway?”

  “I’m worried that if we ask why her phone number was in the possession of two murdered hookers, it’ll rekindle her interest in the story. So far, Eric, she’s at a dead end and has let the thing drop. I don’t want her on this case, and I sure as hell don’t want her to know we’re working it.” Gianna was still recovering from the shock of seeing Mimi’s telephone number on the blackboard in the Think Tank beside the names Shelley Kelley and Starry Knight. “Besides. What the ever lovin’ hell is she doing giving hookers her home telephone number?”

  Eric laughed in spite of himself. The one thing he could not have imagined was his boss, the always-in-control Lieutenant Maglione, Her Chilly Self, having a fit of jealous pique. But if there was anybody who could raise her hackles and lower her defenses, it would be Montgomery Patterson.

  He recalled his last meeting with her. It had been the reporter, not the police, who’d learned where a psychotic serial killer had taken the head of the Hate Crimes unit hostage. In the process of finding where Gianna was being held, Patterson had also discovered why Gianna was destined to be the killer’s next victim. Revealing that reason would have meant “outing” Gianna, which Patterson flat-out refused to do when Eric pressed her, and she’d called him a little shit, right in front of the Chief. She’d also done a better job of going undercover than he had, and she’d generally been running neck and neck with the police as they investigated the murders. In addition to the fact that she was one gorgeous woman. It didn’t surprise him that the Boss didn’t want her lover chasing the killer of six prostitutes.

  “It’s Tim’s call, Anna, and he’ll handle it just like any other.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it, how many serial killings are ritualistic.” It took him a moment to shift gears, to realize that she was on to another topic and she apologized when she saw the look on his face. “Sorry. My brain is roving. You said the murders all occurred in the spring and the fall—”

  “No, I said March and October. You attached seasons.”

  “...spring and fall...beginnings and endings...alpha and omega.” She was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a seasonal connection to this thing,” she continued. “Otherwise, why not whack ‘em in January or June or December?”

  “Why whack ‘em at all?” he asked.

  “’Cause they’re there and easy to whack,” she answered.

  “So are lots of other people.”

  “Yeah, but what do hookers represent, Eric?” And she waited for him to join her thought process—something he often did—but when he didn’t this time, she proffered her “fallen woman” theory, which, she suggested, could connect logically with a seasonal fixation if one assumed some cracked kind of religious motivation. He didn’t buy it and said so.

  “A woman-hating Jesus freak? Gimme a break, Anna.” He yawned and apologized then added, “I’m betting it’s just another crazy, and I am, quite personally, getting sick and tired of ‘em. I’d like to whack a few of them for a change. See how they like it.” She flipped open the top file on the stack and skimmed it. “Good for Kenny, by the way, suggesting that I follow-up on that Spiritual Center.”

  “You think it’s good when the troops start giving orders to the boss?” He raised his eyebrows. “I can’t wait to see how long this lasts.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Haven’t I always encouraged equal participation from the team?”

  “Yeah, as long everybody does everything your way, you’re equal as they come,” he said dryly.

  “Speaking of which,” she said, dismissing his comment, “Officer Ali is going to find herself on foot patrol if she isn’t careful,” and she filled him in on the tale of the Black Men On Guard carrying the truckload of Nazis away from Sophie Gwertzman’s front door. And when he stopped laughing she told him she planned to put a female undercover on the street with the prostitutes to hear what the talk was about the murdered women, and correctly anticipated his response.

  “Cassie and Lynda will have a joint fit and I won’t hear the end of it until Christmas.”

  “It can’t be helped, Eric. Neither of them has undercover experience and this isn’t the case for on the job training. I need to get a woman on the street right away. September approaches...” She continued to go through the reports, reading with speed and assessing with clarity and asking pointed questions and accepting only those answers that made sense to her.

  “You need to move faster on the Jane Does, Eric. We need to know like yesterday if six is the magic number or if there are more victims of this Daniel Boone Jesus-freak that we don’t know about.”

  He stood up to leave. “I know, Boss. But things are a bit of a mess at the morgue.”

  “Well, they’re about to get messier, ‘cause I also want you to order an analysis of the cause of death of every female who has come through the M.E. in the last three years.” She deliberately did not look up from the report she was reading because she did not want to see the incredulity that she knew was crowding his face. When the door closed behind him, she checked the clock. She was scheduled to meet Mimi at the gym for a workout at eight. She had a meeting with Inspector Davis at six-thirty, which was in forty minutes. Time enough to read Kenny’s report on the Spiritual Center and prepare for her visit there tomorrow—a prospect which was becoming more and more enticing. So was the thought of paying a visit to Yusuf Shakur and the B-Moggers, and to the Training Academy to select a female undercover officer, and to Tyler Carson at the newspaper, and to the chief of forensics to talk about the pathology of serial killers of prostitutes—unfortunately a common enough occurrence to have earned its own body of research and analysis. She was also looking forward to not wearing her uniform on a regular basis; to not feeling guilty about participating in her investigations instead of directing them; to not having to attend weekly crime stat analysis and update meetings. In short, she was allowing herself to feel the up side of being a cowboy cop, and she was, she had to admit
to herself, enjoying the feeling.

  *****

  It was already ninety degrees in most of Washington, but at least ten degrees cooler on the street where the Washington Center for Spiritual Awareness was located because the magnificent, ancient oaks and elms that lined the block on both sides of the street were so tall that their branches met in the middle of the street, providing a canopy of cool, green shade. Gianna arrived a little before nine-thirty, while some people were still leaving for work. Children and pets romped in the yards, as often as not running through the sprinklers that rotated in the hopes of saving expensive landscaping from the relentless heat. It struck Gianna as completely incongruous to arrive at such a bucolic setting for the sole purpose of discussing murder.

  A small brass plaque on the front door of the house above the bell was the only indicator of the existence of the Center. Gianna pressed the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by a tiny, beautiful woman who appeared to be Native American. Raven black hair flecked with silver extended down her back to her hips. She wore a simple shift of yellow cotton and no shoes. She smiled at Gianna and beckoned her in.

  “You would be the police lieutenant.”

  “Anna Maglione,” Gianna said, offering her identification, which the woman waved away with a gentle, sweeping motion. Gianna entered the foyer, noticed shoes neatly lined up, and removed her own. The woman, who had not yet identified herself, nodded her thanks, and led Gianna through a set of double doors into a massive and sparsely though warmly furnished room that Gianna imagined was probably used for meditation classes; it certainly wasn’t the typical living room. A plush wall-to-wall off-white carpet covered the floor, and several exquisite Kelim carpets lay on top. Half a dozen large pillows and three ottomans were placed strategically about the room. A long and comfortable-looking sofa was at one end of the room, in front of French doors that looked out onto a garden. A floor-to-ceiling book shelf occupied the entire wall opposite the sofa. Only when she was in the room and seated on the sofa did Gianna realized that relaxing, meditative music was playing, but she saw no speakers in evidence.

  “This is a wonderful room,” Gianna said to the woman.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. It is used for group meditation classes and for lectures.” The woman sat on an ottoman adjacent to the sofa. “I am Adrienne Lightfoot. I was advisor to Sandra and Patricia. I am both relieved and gratified to know that the police will not discard their deaths as society discarded their lives.”

  Gianna weighed her response carefully. It would be unwise to mislead this woman, just as it would be foolhardy to confirm her worst suspicions. “Miss Lightfoot, are you familiar with the work of the Hate Crimes unit of the police department?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I am not.”

  “I am the head of that unit. We investigate crimes against persons perpetrated because of race, religion, sexual orientation, and, with this case, gender. What I’m telling you, Miss Lightfoot, is that at least six prostitutes have been murdered and I think they were murdered simply and only because they were women.”

  Adrienne Lightfoot’s eyes never left Gianna’s, and they never wavered or changed expression. Then her lips lifted at the corners in a small smile. “I thought it was too good to be true that Sandra and Patricia of their own accord would generate such interest, but I am grateful for that interest no matter the reason. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “You can tell me whatever you didn’t tell Officer Chang. You can tell me everything you know about Sandra King and Patricia McIntyre. You can tell me whether those two women ever said anything that would give me a clue about who killed them and the other four. And you can tell me what the word is on the street among the prostitutes.”

  Gianna and Adrienne Lightfoot talked for an hour and a half, during which time the cowboy cop learned how much things had changed since her days on the street as a vice detective. AIDS and crack had made the streets not only meaner and scarier, but dangerous beyond comprehension. So dangerous that drug addicts were abandoning crack and returning to heroin, and prostitutes in increasing numbers were leaving the street life.

  “They’re such easy targets, those women,” Adrienne said sadly. “By virtue of their presence they ask to be victimized, and there is absolutely no recourse. The shelters and jails and halfway houses and clinics cater overwhelmingly to men, and society still blames women for men’s sickness.”

  And Adrienne Lightfoot finally told Gianna what she wanted to hear: That rumors had been floating about the street for over a year about a group of boys—college students, perhaps—who were required to kill a hooker as initiation into some kind of fraternal group or organization. No, Adrienne could not track down the source of the rumor. No, she did not remember when or from whom she first heard the rumor, only that it was at least a year ago. And no, she didn’t know of any prostitute who would voluntarily talk to a police officer. It had taken seven months to gain the trust and confidence of Shelley and Patricia and now they were dead and word on the street was that not even yoga, meditation, and vegetables could save you when it was your time to go.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Mimi turned the corner on to her street, she saw the man standing on her front porch. She braked, shifted into neutral, and coasted down the street toward her house, her eyes on the man, tall and broad-shouldered, and definitely not anyone she knew. She saw him push the bell and await the response that would not come. She slowed virtually to a stop to watch, to see what he’d do next, to wonder who he was since he clearly wasn’t delivering anything—no delivery truck in sight, and he wore a sport jacket and slacks. She eased to a stop directly in front of her house. The man removed a card from his pocket, wrote something on the back of it, and stuck it in the screen door. That’s when Mimi got out of the car and strolled up the brick walkway to the steps. The man turned around. Good looking sucker.

  “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Are you Marilyn Patterson?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Who are you?” she asked, making no attempt to conceal her wariness. No one called her by her first name. No one outside her immediate family knew her first name.

  He flipped open his police identification. “Officer Tim McCreedy, Metropolitan Police.” He was still cheerful.

  “I’m Montgomery Patterson, Officer. How can I help?”

  “M. Montgomery Patterson? The reporter?” His good cheer evaporated.

  “One and the same.” She waited.

  “Miss Patterson, your name was in the possession of two murder victims, Sandra Ann King and Stella Pearson...”

  She cut him off. “I don’t know anybody by those names.”

  Undeterred, he continued, “...also known as Shelley Kelley and Starry Knight.” She noticed his pleasure at her reaction. “They were prostitutes,” he said.

  “Yes, Officer McCreedy, I know. Maybe you’d better come in.” She unlocked the door and ushered him into her study. She left him there while she opened the windows, turned on the fans front and back hoping for some kind of cross breeze, and brought bottles of mineral water for them.

  She sat at the desk chair and motioned him into the overstuffed arm-chair adjacent to the book shelf. “I guess I knew something had happened to them when I couldn’t find them, but I guess I was also hoping that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be this.”

  “When did you last see them, either of them, Miss Patterson?”

  “Not for months. I lost touch with them sometime in March, maybe. I remember that it was still cold.” At her last meeting with Shelley, a foot of snow had covered the ground and the temperature was in the single digits, and the girl wore spike heels and a spandex body suit and some kind of pretend fur coat, no hat and no gloves. And Starry had called her at home that same week, to cancel their meeting. She had the flu and wasn’t on the street, and that was the last she’d seen or heard from either of them.

  “Were they in any kind of trouble? Did they mention anything that would lead you to believe th
ey were in any danger?”

  Mimi hesitated, deciding what, if anything, she’d tell him. Not that she knew much. But she also wanted to know what he knew and she’d have to give up something to get something. “They’d been stringing me along for a while with the promise of a big story. I never got the details, just the hint that important men were somehow involved. How were they killed?”

  “Knifed,” said McCreedy, a little too quickly, Mimi thought.

  “When were they killed?” she asked.

  “Shelley in early April, Starry some time in late March. Look, Miss Patterson, if you think of anything else, will you call me—” He stopped short, surprised, when she laughed.

  “Not bloody likely, Officer. I do have my priorities, you know.” He grinned back at her, causing her to think once again what he good-looking guy he was. He finished off his seltzer, gave her the bottle, and stood up to leave. He came face-to-face with the book shelf, eye-to-eye with the photograph of Gianna there, and when he turned to her it was with a puzzled expression on his face. The grin was gone.

  “Ah, Miss Patterson, did I ah, mention to you that I’m with the Hate Crimes unit?”

  She looked from him to the photo of Gianna and back to him. “Shit.”

  “Me, too,” he said with feeling, and found his own way out, closing the door gently behind him.

  “Shit!” Mimi said again, and at least four more times, each time louder than the preceding time. She cursed the heat as she stripped out of the wilted clothes she’d worked in all day and made for the shower. She cursed Gianna’s stubbornness for insisting that the two of them keep their professional lives separate from their personal lives. She cursed the fact that Officer McCreedy had to turn his pretty blue eyes right on Gianna’s picture. Now one of Gianna’s subordinates would know that his boss’s photo was on some woman’s bookshelf. But she stopped cursing when she realized, happily, that thanks to Officer McCreedy she now knew Shelley and Starry’s real names and since they probably were D.C. natives she could ask Bev to run them through the school system’s computer...Shit! Bev no longer worked for the school system. And come to think of it, when she fixed the image of Officer McCreedy in her mind, if he wasn’t gay she wasn’t, and since she certainly was, so was he. And so the hell what!