K is for Killer (13 page)

“What about—”

“Just a minute,” she cut in. “Let me ask you something else. How much do you earn?”

I stared at her. “How much do
I
earn?”

“Yeah, like last year. What was your annual income? What'd you pay taxes on?”

“That's getting pretty personal, isn't it?”

“You don't have to act like that. This is strictly between us. You say and then I will. We'll trade tit for tat, as it were.”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Now it was her turn to stare. “That's
all
? I earned twice that. No fooling. Fifty-two thousand five hundred and change.”

“You got your nose broken, too,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, well, you had
your
nose broken. I can tell by looking. I'm not criticizing. No offense,” she said. “You're not a bad-looking chick, but for twenty-five thousand, you get punched in the chops same as me, am I right?”

“I wouldn't look at it quite like that.”

“Don't bullshit yourself. I learned that from Lorna, too. Take my word for it. Your job is dangerous the same as mine, with only half the pay. You ought to switch, in my opinion. Not that I'm promoting my line of work. I'm just telling you what I think.”

“I appreciate your concern. If I decide to change careers, I'll come to you for job counseling.”

She smiled, amused at the sarcasm or what she assumed was sarcasm. “I'll tell you something else she taught me. Keep your big mouth shut. You do a guy, you don't talk about it afterward. Especially in the crowd she's running in. She slipped up once and swore she'd never do it again. Some of those guys . . . whoo! You're better off forgetting you ever knew 'em.”

“Do you travel in those circles? The real high-class stuff?”

“Well, not all the time. Not now. When she was alive, I did now and then. Like once in a while, she'd dress me up fancy and take me with her on a big one. Me and this other girl named Rita. What a hoot. Some guys like 'em young.
You shave your pubes and act like you're about ten years old. Like this one night? I made over fifteen hundred dollars. Don't ask me doing what. That's something else you don't talk about. Lester would have killed me if he found out.”

“What happened to all her money when she died?” I asked.

“Beats the hell out of me. You'd have to ask her folks about that. I bet she didn't have a will. I mean, what'd she need a will for? She was young. Well, twenty-five, which is not
that
old. I bet she thought she had years, and it turned out she had nothing.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You are not.”

“I am
too.
”

“Danielle, you're not.”

She smiled slightly. “Okay, I'm nineteen, but I'm mature for my age.”

I said, “Seventeen is probably closer, but we'll let that pass.”

“You better ask more about Lorna. You're wasting your money when you ask about me.”

“What was Lorna doing out at the water treatment plant? That doesn't sound like it was worth even the part-time pay.”

“She had to do
something
. She couldn't tell her parents how she was earning her bread. They were real conservative; least her dad was. I met her mom at the funeral, and she seemed nice enough. Her old man was a butt, all the time on her case, checkin' up on her. Lorna was a wild one, and she didn't like to be controlled.”

“I talked to her father earlier today, and he said Lorna didn't have many friends.”

Danielle dismissed that with a toss of her head. “What does he know? Just because he never met any. Lorna liked night people. Everybody she knew came out of hiding when the sun went down. Like spiders and all those what-do-you-call-'em . . . nocturnal creatures. Owls and bats. You want to meet her friends, you better get used to staying out all night. What else? This is fun. I didn't realize I was so smart.”

“What about the porno film? Why'd she do that?”

“Oh, same old, same old. You know how it is. Some guy came down from San Francisco. She met him one night at the Edgewater and got to talking about that stuff. He thought she'd be dynamite, and I guess she was. At first she didn't want to do it, but then she figured, Hey, why not? She didn't get paid much, but she said she had a ball. What'd you hear about that?”

“I didn't hear about it. I saw it.”

“You did not. You saw that?”

“Sure, I have a copy.”

“Well, that's weird. That video was never released.”

Now it was my turn to express skepticism. “Really? It never went into distribution? I don't believe it.” We sounded like a couple of talking birds.

“That's what she said. She was pissed off about it, too. She thought it could be her big break, but there was nothing she could do.”

“The cassette I saw was edited, packaged, the whole bit. They must have had a lot of money tied up in it. What's the story?”

“I just know what she said. Maybe the venture was undercapitalized, whatever the term is. How'd you get a copy?”

“Someone sent it to her mother.”

Danielle barked out a laugh. “You're kidding. That's gross. What kind of jerk would do a thing like that?”

“I don't know yet. I'm hoping to find out. What else can you tell me?”

“No, no. You ask and I'll answer. I can't think of anything off the top of my head.”

“Who's Lester?”

“Lester had nothing to do with Lorna.”

“But who is he?”

She gave me a look. “What's it to you?”

“You're afraid of him, and I want to know why.”

“Get off it. You're wasting your money.”

“Maybe I can afford it.”

“Oh, right. On what you make? That's bullshit.”

“Actually, I don't even know what you're charging.”

“Trick rates. Fifty bucks.”

“An hour?” I yelped.

“Not an hour. What's the matter with you? Fifty bucks a trick. Nothing about sex takes an
hour
,” she said contemptuously. “Anybody says it's an hour is rippin' you off.”

“I take it Lester's your pimp.”

“Listen to her. ‘Pimp.' Who taught you to talk that way? Lester Dudley—Mr. Dickhead to you—is my personal manager. He's like my professional representative.”

“Did he represent Lorna?”

“Of course not. I already told you, she was smart. She declined his services.”

“You think he'd have any information about her?”

“Not a chance. Don't even bother. The guy's a real piece of shit.”

I thought for a moment, but I'd covered the questions that came readily to mind. “Well. This should do for now. If you think of anything else, will you get in touch?”

“Sure,” she said. “As long as you got the money, I got the mouth . . . so to speak.”

I picked up my handbag and took out my wallet. I gave her a business card, jotting my home address and telephone number on the back. Ordinarily I don't like to give out that information, but I wanted to make it as easy for her as possible. I reviewed my cash supply. I thought maybe she'd be magnanimous and waive her fees, but she held her hand out, watching carefully as I counted bills into her palm. I had to make up the last dollar with the loose change in the bottom of my bag. Of course, I was short.

“Don't worry about it. You can owe me the dime.”

“I'll give you an IOU,” I said.

She waved the offer aside. “I trust you.” She tucked the money in her jacket pocket. “Men are funny, you know? Big male fantasy about hookers? I see this in all these books written by men. Some guy meets a hooker and she's gorgeous: big knockers, refined, and she's got the hots for him. Him and her end up bonking, and when he's done, she won't take his money. He's so wonderful, she doesn't want to charge him money like she does everyone else. Now that's bullshit for sure. I never knew a hooker who'd do a guy for free. Anyway, hooker sex is for shit. If he thinks that's a gift, then the joke's on him.”

I
t was close to one-thirty in the morning when I parked my VW in the little parking lot outside the emergency entrance to St. Terry's Hospital. After my conversation with Danielle, Cheney had dropped me back at my place. I moved in through the squeaking gate and around to the back. I heard Cheney give his horn a short toot, and then he took off. The night sky was still clear, bright with stars, but I could see patchy clouds collecting at the western edge as predicted. An airplane moved across my field of vision, a distant dot of red winking among the pinpricks of white, the sound trailing behind it like a banner advertising flight. The final quarter of the moon had narrowed to the curved sliver of a shepherd's crook, a cloud like a wisp of cotton caught in its crescent. I could have sworn I still heard the booming music that had shaken Neptune's Palace. In reality, the club was less than a mile from my apartment, and I suppose it was possible the sound might have carried. It was more likely a stereo or a car radio in much closer range. Against the drumming of the high tide
at the ocean half a block away, the faint thump of bass was a muted counterpoint, brooding, silky, and indistinct.

I paused, keys in hand, and leaned my head briefly against the door to my place. I was tired, but curiously disinterested in sleep. I've always been a day person, thoroughly addicted to early rising and morning sunshine in a nine-to-five world. I might work late on occasion, but for the most part I'm home by early evening and sound asleep by eleven. Tonight, yet again, I was nudged by restlessness. Some long suppressed aspect of my personality was being activated, and I could feel myself respond. I wanted to talk to Serena Bonney, the nurse who'd discovered Lorna's body. Somewhere in the accumulating verbal portrait of Lorna Kepler was the key to her death. I went back through the gate and closed it quietly behind me.

 

T
he emergency room had an air of abandonment. The sliding glass doors opened with a hush, and I moved into the quiet of the blue-and-gray space. There were lights on in the reception area, but the patient registration windows had been closed for hours. To the left, behind a small partition with its wall-mounted pay telephones, the waiting room was empty, the TV a square of blank gray. I peered to the right, toward the examining rooms. Most were dark, with the surrounding curtains pulled back and secured on overhead tracks. I could smell freshly perked coffee wafting from a little kitchenette at the rear of the facility. A young black woman in a white lab coat came out of a doorway marked “Linens.” She was small and pretty. She paused when she spotted me, flashing a smile. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here. Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Serena Bonney. Is she working this shift?”

The woman glanced at her watch. “She should be back shortly. She's on her break. You want to have a seat? The TV's on the blink, but there's lots of reading material.”

“Thanks.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I read outdated issues of
Family Circle
magazine: articles about children, health and fitness, nutrition, home decorating, and inexpensive home-building projects meant for Dad in his spare time—a wooden bench, a treehouse, a rustic shelf to support Mom's picturesque garden of container herbs. To me, it was like reading about life on an alien planet. All the ads showed such perfect women. Most were thirty years old, white, and had flawless complexions. Their teeth were snowy and even. None of them had wide bottoms or kangaroo pouches that pulled their slacks out of shape. There was no sign of cellulite, spider veins, or breasts drooping down to their waists. These perfect women lived in well-ordered houses with gleaming floors, an inconceivable array of home appliances, oversize fluffy mutts, and no visible men. I guess Dad was relegated to the office between his woodworking projects. Intellectually I understood that these were all highly paid models simply
posing
as housewives for the purpose of selling Kotex, floor covering, and dog food. Their lives were probably as far removed from housewifery as mine was. But what did you do if you actually were a
housewife
, confronted with all these images of perfection on the hoof? From my perspective, I couldn't see any connection at all between my lifestyle (hookers, death, celibacy, handguns, and fast food) and the lifestyle depicted in the magazine, which was probably just as well. What would I do with a fluffy mutt and containers full of dill and marjoram?

“I'm Serena Bonney. Did you want to see me?”

I looked up. The nurse in the doorway was in her early forties, a good-size woman, maybe five feet ten. She wasn't obese by any stretch, but she carried a lot of weight on her frame. The women in her family probably described themselves as “hearty peasant stock.”

I set the magazine aside and got to my feet, holding out my hand. “Kinsey Millhone,” I said. “Lorna Kepler's mother hired me to look into her death.”

“Again?” she remarked as she shook my hand.

“Actually, the case is still open. Can I take a few minutes of your time?”

“It's a funny hour for an investigation.”

“I should apologize for that. I wouldn't ordinarily bother you at work, but I've been suffering insomnia for the last couple of nights, and I thought I might as well take advantage of the fact that you're working.”

“I don't really know much, but I'll do what I can. Why don't you come on into the back? It's quiet at the moment, but that may not last long.”

We moved past two examining rooms and into a small, sparsely furnished office. Like the nurses upstairs, she was dressed in ordinary street clothes: a white cotton blouse, beige gabardine pants, and a matching vest. The crepe-soled shoes marked her as someone who stood for long hours on her feet. Also her wristwatch, like a meat thermometer with a sweeping second hand. Serena paused at the door frame and leaned out into the hall. “I'll be in here if you need me, Joan.”