Hold Still (12 page)

TWENTY-TWO

October 22nd

Hattie Warner rocked back and
forth in her recliner, watching dust motes float and drift in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through her living room window. She listened to the furnace go
knock, knock, knock
. Still, she felt cold. She tugged the corners of the nubby blue-and-white afghan wrapped around her shoulders, pulling them to the center of her chest. She watched the big TV, but there was nothing on. The remote was nowhere to be found.

Knock, knock, knock
.

Her fingers worked at some buttons beside her chair, but they didn’t turn the TV on. The oxygen tank roared to life, though. Now where did she put her nasal—

Knock, knock, knock
.

Damn furnace. “Larry!” she called. The boy never listened. Up in his room, blasting music, cutting school.

Knock, knock.

Then the furnace spoke. “Mrs. Warner,” it said.

Hattie froze in her chair.
Knock, knock.
“Mrs. Warner.”

She stood and went to the furnace. When she opened it, there was a man there. She looked behind him and saw her porch. “Mrs. Warner?” the man said, leaning down to peer into her face. He was tall and white, and he looked like he should be on TV. He wore a black suit like a preacher.

“He’s in his room,” she told him. “I said, ‘You better go to school now,’ but that boy never listened to me. How’s he gonna raise his own boy with no education and no job?”

The man smiled. He handed her his wallet. There was no money in it. “Mrs. Warner, my name is Lieutenant Caleb Vaughn. I’m with the Philadelphia Special Victims Unit.”

She stared at his wallet. Then back at him. He had thick, silky hair and a five o’clock shadow. Was it five o’clock? She had to make supper. “From where?” she asked.

Gingerly, he took his wallet back from her outstretched palm. “The police,” he said. “I’m with the Philadelphia Police Department. The Special Victims Unit.”

“You on TV?”

Vaughn chuckled. “No. Not the show. I’m with the police department. Can I come in?”

Hattie shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t have no rent, though. I’ll get paid on Friday. You can come then.”

Vaughn followed her to the living room. He looked around, the lines of his face turned downward into a grimace. “I’m not here for your rent, Mrs. Warner. I’m here about your son, Larry.”

She sat in her chair and slid her fingers into the cracks between the arms and the seat cushion, feeling around until the man reached down and handed her the nasal cannula hooked to her oxygen tank. “Thank you,” she said.

Vaughn perched on the pockmarked coffee table, at eye level with her. He smiled again, and she couldn’t remember what TV show she had seen him on. “You have kind eyes,” she said. “Are you a doctor? I sure wish Larry would have been a doctor.”

“No, Mrs. Warner, I’m with the police.”

“Them police was just here taking all kinds of stuff—computers and phones,” she said.

The man nodded. “Those were my investigators. They were executing a warrant—taking those things into evidence. Mrs. Warner, I’m here about Larry.”

“He in trouble?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I told him to leave those checks alone. Forgery’s against the law.” She shook her head. “There’s no telling him.”

“I’m not here about checks. Your son’s in a lot of trouble. He’s been charged with kidnapping and rape.”

Hattie’s hands flew to her chest. She sucked in a breath that didn’t reach all of her lungs. “Rape?”

“Yes, ma’am. Larry’s in jail. He’s there with his friend, Angel Donovan. Do you know him?”

She stared behind him, her eyes drawn to the dancing dust motes. Why wouldn’t the damn TV come on? The man repeated his question, bobbing his head to catch her eye.

Her mind lit on one word. “Jail? Larry got locked up?”

“Yes,” the man said.

“He told me—” Hattie began, but she couldn’t find the rest of the words. “I was supposed to do something.”

She looked around, but nothing sparked her memory. Larry had said, “Mama, if I ever get locked up, you need to—”

“What did he say?” she asked. She looked at her feet.

“Mrs. Warner, I’m here because there was another man involved with the crimes that Larry’s been charged with. A white man. Do you know the names of any of Larry’s friends who are white?”

“Larry don’t have no white friends,” she replied. Her feet. Her feet. Something about her feet. But all she saw were her threadbare pink slippers, now a dirty rose from age and overuse. What had Larry said?

“Larry doesn’t associate with any white males that you know of?”

Hattie shook her head. “No. Larry run with Angel and Dwayne, although I don’t know why Dwayne gives him the time of day after the way Larry ignored him the whole time he was growing up. His own son. He don’t want nothing to do with that baby.”

Vaughn’s brow furrowed. “Dwayne is your grandson?”

Hattie stared at her slippers, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. Something about her damn feet. “Who?” she said.

“Dwayne.”

“Don’t know no Dwayne.”

It was under her feet! She clapped her hands together and
smiled broadly at Vaughn. “What’s your name?” she asked.

The man sighed. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “Lieutenant Caleb Vaughn.”

She stood up, and he stood with her. “Mr. Vaughn,” she said. “Can you move my chair?”

She pointed to the other side of the room. “Over there by the window.”

Another sigh, heavier this time.
Damn movers.
She hoped he didn’t expect a tip after acting so put out about doing his job. “Sure,” Vaughn said. “Sure I can.”

He dragged her recliner to the window, thanked her for her time, and left. Hattie knelt in the empty space where her chair had been and pulled the green carpet, peeling it away from the wall.

“Larry’s in trouble,” she mumbled.

It took her three tries to dislodge the false floorboard. She reached into the dark hole and rooted around until her hand closed over a large Ziploc bag. Once she had freed it, she dumped its contents onto the floor. Seven or eight thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills tumbled to the floor. There was a business card, small and white. Bail bondsman. On the back were the handwritten words:
Larry said call this guy.

She turned it back over. Larry had told her to call his friend about the money. He’d get Larry out and bring him home. She studied the number for several seconds before shoving all the money back into the bag.

Now, where was the damn phone?

TWENTY-THREE

October 27th

Jocelyn hadn’t been to the
Kensington Stroll in years—not since she was on patrol. But it hadn’t changed much. If anything, it had grown dirtier and grimier. The El spanned the length of Kensington Avenue like a giant blue thousand-legger whose body cast a dark metal shadow over its inhabitants. The buildings that still stood were mostly brick and grouped tightly together. The houses on the side streets were in such ill repair that the whole neighborhood looked haphazardly thrown together, as if someone had tossed them all onto the concrete and smushed them together to make room for something better—something better that never got built. Many of the buildings were various shades of red, painted as if someone had started putting on a fresh coat and never finished. Some row houses had been torn down, giving the blocks a gap-toothed look. Used needles gathered in the cracks and crevices.

Abandoned warehouses stood defaced, covered in graffiti with the windows smashed out. The signs on the businesses lining Kensington Avenue looked like something someone had hand-painted in his basement. Most shops had either the accordion-style garage door security closures or wrought-iron bars lining their windows. The upper floors of most all the buildings had boarded-up windows.

The closest thing to grass you could find were the weeds springing from the broken pavement. Abandoned, trash-strewn lots occasionally broke up the pushed-together buildings. It had the look and feel of desperation, of life trying to climb out of the bowels of the concrete only to be violated and crushed over and over again.

“Watch where you step,” Jocelyn cautioned as she and Kevin stepped out of their car.

As Jocelyn had predicted, Alicia Hardigan was a lifer. She had arrests for prostitution going back ten years—from her eighteenth birthday. She’d been in and out of prison for minor drug violations, and her list of former addresses could fill a phone book. Jocelyn and Kevin had waited a week for another night that was slow enough for them to do some investigating and track Hardigan down without their absence being noticed or reported to Ahearn.

They decided to hit the Stroll, flashing Hardigan’s last mug shot, trying to find someone who knew her. The prostitutes they talked to weren’t in the habit of trusting—or talking to—police. No matter how many times Jocelyn assured the women that Hardigan was not in trouble, she was turned away with a stony expression and an “I don’t know her.” She knew at least half of them were lying.

Kevin met her on the corner of Kensington and Allegheny Avenues after an hour. “I got nothing,” he said. “But I did see a couple of people humping next to that house back there.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “That doesn’t help us.”

Kevin motioned behind her. “How about this one?”

Jocelyn turned to see Delores Halsey striding toward her, a wry smile on her leathery face. “Jocelyn Rush,” she said. “I heard you were out here.”

Delores was in her fifties, but she looked like she was in her sixties. Her hair was bleached blonde, straggly and brittle. Her skin was wrinkled and sagging, bronzed from too much sun and worn thin from exposure and life on the street. Her denim miniskirt and high-heeled shoes seemed completely inappropriate for her age—not to mention the cool weather. At least she had a jacket—denim like her skirt. She had liberally applied some blue eye shadow and rouge that her skin seemed to reject—it sat atop her face, occasionally loosening in chunks and sloughing off.

Jocelyn smiled back. “Delores, how are you?”

Delores shrugged. “Same,” she said. “You know how it goes. Who’s your friend?” She eyed Kevin up and down until he shifted his feet and folded his arms across his chest.

“This is Detective Sullivan,” Jocelyn said.

Delores appraised him a moment longer, apparently deciding he wasn’t worth her attention, before turning back to Jocelyn.

“I hear you’re asking about Alicia.”

“What do you know?” Jocelyn asked.

Delores smiled a mostly toothless smile. “Enough to get me a free lunch.”

Twenty minutes later, they were ensconced in a booth at the Tiffany Diner, Kevin looking disgusted and Delores drawing shocked looks from the other patrons. She ordered two entrees. Jocelyn had coffee and Kevin had water. Delores ate like it was her last meal, and it occurred to Jocelyn that, working on the Stroll, it might just be.

“So what do you know about Alicia Hardigan?” Jocelyn asked.

Between bites, Delores asked, “Is she in trouble?”

“No,” Kevin said. “Someone else is—someone we think might have hurt her.”

Delores looked at Jocelyn, who nodded her confirmation.

“Well,” Delores said, signaling their waitress for more soda. “She’s been on the Stroll for years. I seen her about two months ago, and she was all fucked up.”

“Fucked up how?” Kevin asked.

“Bitch could hardly walk she was in such a stupor. Her nose kept bleeding, and she was so out of it she didn’t even know it. Couldn’t get no johns because she’d be covered in blood. Some of ’em don’t even care if you wet yourself, but ain’t none of ’em touching you with blood all down your front.”

“Is she still working?” Jocelyn asked.

Delores shook her head. “No, she OD’d last month. Heard they took her to Episcopal. She was in a coma for two days. Her brother came and got her. He put her in rehab somewhere up on the Main Line.”

“No shit,” Kevin said. “Nice of her brother to show up after she OD’s.”

Delores wagged a finger at him. “Her brother been trying to help her for years. She don’t want no help. I’ll bet you she’s miserable in rehab. She won’t last. The street is her home. She ain’t never changing. She sure as shit ain’t going straight. She’ll be back.”

“She got any other family?” Kevin asked.

Delores shook her head, finishing off her cheeseburger. “No, just a brother. They came up in foster care—separated. The brother found her a few years ago. Been trying to get her straight ever since.”

“Do you know the brother’s name?” Jocelyn asked.

“No.”

“How about the rehab facility?”

“Booster or Brewster something. Something with a
B
. But give it two weeks, she’ll be back on the Stroll.”

“Do you remember her getting messed up earlier this year?” Jocelyn asked.

The skin between Delores’s eyebrows knotted up. “Messed up?”

Jocelyn leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “She get in trouble?”

Delores thought about it for a moment. “Not that I remember, but she did disappear for awhile. Around April. She was gone a couple of months. She was a lot fatter when she got back.”

“You notice anything different about her? Besides her getting fat?” Kevin asked.

Delores froze, her fork and knife poised above her plate. She looked at Jocelyn, her gaze flinty. “What’s going on?”

Jocelyn lowered her voice. “We think there might be two or three men picking up prostitutes, crucifying and raping them.”

“Crucifying them?”

“Yeah.”

“Like nailing their hands?”

“And feet.”

Delores’s expression went flat. Her hands quivered momentarily. “Jesus,” she said. “You think they got Alicia?”

“Yeah, we need to talk to her.”

Delores leaned back in her seat, pressing her thin shoulder blades into the booth behind her. She put her utensils down and picked up a napkin, tearing little pieces from it and balling them up between her thumb and middle finger. She didn’t speak for several moments. Jocelyn’s coffee had grown cold.

“You lookin’ for them?” Delores asked.

“We got two of them,” Kevin put in.

“We’re looking for the last one,” Jocelyn said. “These are going unreported. So if you hear anything, call me.”

Jocelyn handed Delores a business card with her cell phone number scrawled on the back. Delores stuffed the card into the pocket of her impossibly small miniskirt and stared at her half-eaten meal. She put her napkin down and picked at her French fries. “I’ll ask around,” she said finally.

“I’d appreciate it,” Jocelyn said. “Call if you find out anything.”