The Beast (35 page)

The girl slowed down, clearly out of breath. Finally she stopped and stuck her head between her legs. She was white and very thin, her right arm enveloped in a half-sleeved tattoo. There were other ink marks on her legs, ankles, and behind her neck. She was young with short hair dyed ice blond. There were pockmarks on her cheek, but she did have all her fingers. She was panting.

Marge said, “C’mon in. We’ll give you a ride.”

“I’m . . . okay.”

“We’re not arresting you.” Oliver got out and opened the door to the backseat. “It’s cold outside. Surely you don’t want to be another nasty statistic.”

Reluctantly, the girl got in the backseat, completely spent. At the moment, even jail was a better alternative to being gang-raped and beaten. Marge pulled away and did a U-turn until she was driving west of Hollywood Boulevard.

Oliver turned around and said, “Do you have ID?”

The girl’s eyes darkened. She was still breathing hard. “I thought . . . you weren’t arresting me.”

“I’m checking your age.” Then the girl handed Oliver her driver’s
license. Mindy Martin—age nineteen. “Current address?” She didn’t answer. “Move around a lot?” Nothing. “Where does your pimp live?”

“No pimp . . .” Breath, breath.

Oliver said, “Where does your boyfriend live?”

“I’m supposed to meet him at . . . The Snake Pit.”

“That’s six miles west of here.”

“I know.” A pause. “You know, I wasn’t doing anything.”

“We’re not from vice,” Marge said. “We’re from homicide.”

“Ho-mi-cide?” Pronouncing each syllable as if she were learning it for the first time. “Like murder?”

“Exactly like murder. We’re looking for a woman who calls herself Shady Lady. She’s probably around thirty and she wears gloves. She might be missing a finger.”

“Yuck!”

“You know anybody like that?”

“No,” Mindy said. “I keep to myself. Both me and my boyfriend like it that way.”

Marge said, “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Nathaniel.”

“Nathaniel what?”

“Nathaniel Horchow, if you must know.”

“He doesn’t mind you . . . doing what you’re doing out here?” Oliver let the sentence hang in the air.

“Yeah, he minds. He didn’t want me to do it, you know. But this is a very expensive city. I’m just doing it a little longer . . . until he breaks in.” She pinched off a tiny bit of space between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s sooooo close. Not everyone can get into The Snake Pit, you know. You need connections.”

“Break in doing what?”

“Acting.”

Marge looked in the rearview mirror. “Let me tell you your story, Mindy Martin. Are you listening?” No answer. “Okay, here goes. You’re from the Midwest. Wisconsin, Iowa, or maybe Minnesota. You and Nathaniel grew up together, maybe even did a little
acting in the high school play. Nathaniel’s a good-looking guy in your little hometown. He’s popular, athletic . . . a lady’s man, so you were honored he chose you. Plus, he’s got an artistic soul that only you understand. Certainly, his parents don’t understand him. Nathaniel has dreams that don’t include hanging around his hometown. First, he wanted to leave as soon as he hit sixteen and could drive away. But you . . . not so much. You told him at least to wait until you graduated. Then you both took off for Hollywood.” A pause. “How am I doing so far?”

No answer.

Marge said, “It’s been slow going for the career because Nathaniel’s pretty face in Wisconsin—”

“Minnesota.”

“My apologies,” Marge said. “There are thousands of pretty boys out here in L.A. doing the same thing. Some of them are gay. As a matter of fact, I bet Nathaniel’s been offered some gay porn, but you put your foot down at that. Still, you have no idea what he does when you’re not around. And he’s been hanging around some edgy-looking people. You two have been here about . . . two years maybe.”

Silence.

“How far off am I?”

“How’d ya know we’ve been here for two years?”

“Because you’re hooking in the field and you’re not a hundred percent jaded. Another year or so, you’ll go back home. Nathaniel will stay here. He’ll survive by doing something. Maybe he’ll get a legit job. More than likely he’ll augment the income by selling some weed or meth, or giving BJs to rich men who are on the down-low. Eventually, he’ll get arrested and do time. But unless he’s hard-core, sitting in jail will give him time to think. Maybe he’ll even come back to you. So if you want some advice, just pack up and go back home and wait a year or so. If he doesn’t materialize, it’s one of the three things: he never really wanted you, he’s in jail, or he’s dead.”

“You don’t know me.” Her cheeks were red with tears. “He loves me.”

“I’m sure he does,” Marge said.

“Drop me off here,” Mindy said. “I can walk.”

“I’ll take you all the way. The streets are deserted except for the goblins.”

They rode in silence, the lights shimmering in the night fog. Finally she said, “Who got killed?”

“An old man,” Oliver said. “We think he might have been involved with prostitutes. Ever work in the San Fernando Valley?”

“No. Don’t have a car.”

Marge said, “So Nathaniel drives you where you need to go?”

Again, she went mute. Ten minutes later they were five blocks away from The Snake Pit. Mindy’s voice was quiet. “Let me off here. Don’t want to show up at The Snake Pit in a cop car. Boo that.”

Marge pulled over to the curb. Mindy immediately tried to open the back door but couldn’t. Marge got out of the cruiser and opened Mindy’s door, but blocked her access to freedom. “You hear anything about someone missing fingers, you call me, Mindy. I depend on people like you, okay?”

“Why? So you can insult them?”

“I’m just trying to point you in the right direction. Up to you if you want to walk that way or not. But do call if you hear anything. There’s money in it for you if you give me a legit lead.”

Her mood perked up. “Like I’m a confidence informer?”

Marge handed her a business card. “There’s my number. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

“How much money?”

“You’ll find out after you do me a service. If you found my lady with missing fingers and you told me about it . . . see, that would be a service. And that would mean money.”

“Okay.” A shrug. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

“Good. Because right now the score is one/zero in our favor because
we
pulled
you
out of a jam.” Marge stepped out of the way so Mindy could pass. “Pay off your debt soon, girl. It’s what keeps the economy humming.”

D
ECKER HEARD HIS
cell vibrate under his pillow and glanced at the clock. Since it was two-thirty in the morning, it was either a drunk or him. When Decker depressed the green button, he whispered, “Hold on.” Grabbing a robe, he tiptoed from the bedroom and into the living room. He turned on a table lamp.

“Hey, Chris,” he croaked out and then cleared his throat. “How’s my son?”

“He had a good day. He and his girlfriend are now allowed to talk to each other.”

“He’s too young for a relationship. Lemme talk to him.”

Decker smiled. “Chris, he’s sleeping.”

“So?”

“You’ve got his cell number. I’m not going to wake him up.”

Donatti laughed. “Okay. Let the little bastard sleep. That is what most people do at two-thirty in the morning. Me? I’ve worked the night shift my entire life. Right now I’m stuck at the tables in Vegas, watching several of my high-roller clients, ensuring a good time is had by all.”

“How’s lady luck treating you?”

“I’m a bystander, but my clients are happy. That’s good for me, because they’re repeaters. Every businessman will tell you that return customers are his bread and butter.”

“You are nothing if not savvy in the world of money.”

“So you should appreciate this freebie.”

“Freebie?” Decker was astonished. “More like payback for raising your son.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I send you money.”

“I give it to your son.”

“Well, then you’re stupid, because I already give him more than he needs.”

Decker felt blood rush to his brain as immediate anger welled up in his body. He forced himself to talk slowly. “I don’t want your money, Donatti. I’ve never wanted your money. When I need help, I’m not shy to ask anyone. You have means that are unavailable to me and I know my limitations. But let’s get one thing straight, buddy. You don’t
ever
call me stupid. I treat you civilly. I demand the same treatment back.”

Silence over the line. Decker expected it to disconnect at any moment. Instead Donatti’s voice dropped a couple of notches. It was ice cold. “You know those pictures you e-mailed me.”

Decker sat up. “You found the girls?”

“Not the girls, the guy . . . Bruce Havert. I’m looking at him as we speak.”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“Not positive. But I have a good eye for faces.”

“That’s right. You can draw.”

“One of my many talents. He’s dealing blackjack, standing about a hundred feet from where I am. His name tag says
BYRON
.”

“Where are you?”

“At Havana! I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait a moment.” A pause. “Please, just give me a minute to think.” Decker began to pace. Havert wasn’t wanted, so police couldn’t bring him in. There had to be another approach. “Chris, is
there any way you can get his assumed last name without looking obvious?”

“I don’t do obvious, Decker. You want personal info, ask the casino’s HR department.”

In other words, fuck off. Donatti was still seething at the rebuke. Decker said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. Thanks for calling.”

A beat passed. Then Donatti said, “I’m not doing anything. I could sit at his table and strike up a conversation . . . if I get a seat. It’s a cheap table: twenty minimum.”

“That would be helpful. Maybe you can hang around and act friendly.”

“I don’t do friendly, either. Besides he’s not gonna talk unless I’m throwing around cash. Doing it the right way means sitting down at the table and playing cards. It’ll be gambling with your money. If I win, you’re free and clear. If I lose, I’ll try to keep it under a thousand.”

“I’d rather pay you to follow him home. You’re pretty good with the stealth.”

“No can do. I’ve only got an hour before I have to cart my clients back to Elko on prepaid jet. Are you in or out?”

Decker didn’t even have to think. “Do it.”

MARGE KNOCKED ON
Decker’s open office door, holding a piece of paper. “This came in for you like at four in the morning. Who is Byron Hayes?”

Decker took the sheet. Next to his name was an address and phone number along with the line:
Cost for services rendered: $
0.00. Chris had a good night at the tables.

Marge’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Is that Bruce Havert?”

“Hopefully.”

“Where’d this come from?”

“Donatti was in Vegas yesterday. Once again Havert is at Havana! How’s your schedule looking for a trip to Sin City?”

“I’ll talk to Oliver. I’m sure we can swing it.”

“Good. Call up your buddies in North Las Vegas. You want to drive, or should I book tickets out of Burbank?”

“I’d rather fly. Let me see if Scott is here.” She stuck her head out the door. Oliver was at his desk and on the phone. She waved and he waved. A minute later, Oliver came into Decker’s office. “I just got off the phone with Sabrina Talbot. She’s expecting us at eleven.”

“Change of plans,” Marge said. “We’re going to Vegas. We’ve located Bruce Havert aka Byron Hayes.”

Oliver’s face registered surprise. “Bruce Havert, huh? What about the girls?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out.” Decker was staring at his computer monitor.

“If we’re going to Vegas, who’s going to Santa Barbara?”

“That would be me.” Decker clicked the keyboard. “I can get you two a real cheap flight that leaves at ten-thirty. It’s eight now, so you should have enough time to organize and get out of here. When do you want to come back?”

“Leave the return open, just in case we need to stay overnight,” Marge said.

“Okay. So keep me updated. I’ll handle your car rental. Do you need to go home and pack?”

“Nah, I’ve got enough for an overnight in my locker. What about you, Scott?”

“Same,” Oliver said. “Is Havert a suspect or a witness?”

“You tell me, Detective,” Decker said.

“Person of interest,” Marge said. “I’ll contact Lonnie Silver and get something going with him.” She left to make her calls. Oliver stayed behind.

Decker faced Oliver. “You’ll have a Ford Escort waiting at the airport. Tell me if you need overnight accommodations.”

“Don’t book a motel for me,” Oliver said. “I’ll probably fritter away the wee hours of the morning in the casinos. Say hello to the comely Ms. Talbot for me.”

“I’ll do more than that,” Decker said. “I’ll put in the good word for you.”

“Don’t bother. She’s out of my league.”

“I don’t know, Scotty, she did say you were handsome.”

Oliver beamed. “She’s a woman of exquisite taste.”

BREEZING ALONG THE
101 North, Decker was thrilled by the lack of traffic. And the scenery sure was nice. He rode past miles of multi-million-dollar houses that stood on the edge of a deep blue sea. The air was cool but not cold. The sun was spreading warmth through the windshield of his car, rays bouncing off the ocean’s surface, pinpoints of light flitting about like a swarm of glowworms. From the station house, it was a ninety-minute drive to Santa Barbara, and with the speed he was traveling, it turned out to be eighty-minutes plus. He turned off Olive Mill Road in Montecito and followed directions until he arrived at Sabrina Talbot’s iron gates. He announced his name into a squawk box and was let in. He coursed through a sinuous drive lined with foliage until he stopped the car at the guardhouse. The guy who stepped out was black and big: shorter than Decker but heavier, and most of it was muscle.

The guard said, “You’re not Detective Oliver.”

“Change of plans. Detective Oliver had an emergency elsewhere, so you got his boss.” Decker took out his badge. “Ms. Talbot and I had a lovely conversation yesterday. I do appreciate her letting LAPD barge in on her one last time.”