The Assailant (13 page)

Finally, Coyle made a conciliatory gesture. As if to say,
Proceed
. Escobar stated for the record the date and the time and who was present. He stated for the record that Roland Gent and his attorney, Jeffrey Coyle, had voluntarily agreed to appear for questioning in the matter of the investigation of Adele Sayers. Escobar did not use the words
murder
or
death
or
strangulation
.

Then Escobar looked at the subject and said, “Tell us where you where Saturday night.”

Roland Gent said, “I was at this club north of the Fox on Grand. It's called Torchy's City Plaza. You know it.”

“When did you get there?”

“Got there around ten, ten thirty.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Home. I remember 'cause I was watching the Sixers on the television.”

“Who'd they play?”

“Dallas.”

“Anyone with you?”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

“Linsy was with me. And Doreatha.”

“They work for you?”

Coyle frowned and made some sort of grunt.

Roland said, “They're friends of mine.”

Now Escobar frowned. “Counselor, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't give signals to the witness.”

“We're here voluntarily, Detective. Cooperating on a murder investigation. If you intend to go outside the parameters of that investigation to attempt to obtain evidence of trafficking in prostitution, our cooperation ends.”

Hastings said, “That's not our game. There's no tricks here.”

“Then why ask if the witnesses work for him?”

“It's just background, I'm sure,” Hastings said, giving Escobar a look himself.

“Right,” Escobar said. “Background.”

After a moment, Coyle waved his hand and Escobar continued.

Escobar said, “Would Linsy and Doreatha be willing to give sworn statements to that effect?”

“Sure.”

“And you would be willing to bring them here to be questioned?”

“Yeah. Why not? I'm not worried, Detective. You can bring 'em here, put 'em in separate rooms, they may remember different
things about what color shirt I was wearing, but they both know I was with 'em that night.”

“All that night?”

“Well, till about midnight.”

“And then what? Till you auctioned them off at Torchy's?”

“Shit—look, we may have parted ways at Torchy's, but I was there until it closed.”

“And when was that?”

“About two. You can check with the crew there, if you want to take the time to do it. Ask for Chris Richards. He was there.”

“Does he own the club?”

“Yeah.”

“We will, you know. We will check all these things.”

“I know you will.”

“What about Friday?”

“Where was I Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“I was at a party.”

“Where?”

Roland looked at his attorney. Coyle nodded to him to go ahead. Roland Gent said, “Soulard. It was a party for a well-known auto dealer in the county.”

“A name, Roland.”

“Man . . .”

Hastings said, “Was this auto dealer a client?”

“Business contact.”

“You need to tell us the name, then.”

“Okay, I'll tell you the name. It was Ken Denton. Of Ken Denton Ford. And yes, I was there to provide a service.”

Hastings said, “No disrespect, Roland. But I would think they'd want you to bring some girls by and leave. Not have you hang around.”

“You right about that.”

“So when did you leave?”

“I left about nine. I went to a club, had a few drinks, and went home.”

“Torchy's?”

“No. Ralph Cutler's in West County. I like the music.”

“You got people to back that up?”

“Yeah.”

Hastings said, “You say that Adele Sayers and you parted company?”

“Yeah. A few months ago.”

“How come?”

“I told you before.”

“Tell me again.”

“She wanted to move on. Thought she could do better on her own.”

“You ever bring her to these parties at Ken Denton Ford?”

“I might have.”

“Don't get squirrelly with me, Roland. You did or you didn't.”

“Okay. I did.”

“Anyone there ever get rough with her?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“She ever complain to you about people following her? A client becoming overly attached?”

“No, she did not.”

“What if she had?”

“They don't want to work with a man, I don't make 'em do it.”

“You sure about that?”

“Look, I ain't no street pimp. I'm a businessman. A lady want to walk out on me, she can do it. I'll replace her within a week.”

“Okay,” Hastings said. “But isn't that a sign of disrespect? Lady quitting on you? Leaving you?”

“No.”

“What if a lady leaves you, goes back to your client base, and sets up a deal herself. Cuts you out of your forty percent. How would you feel about that?”

“I wouldn't like it,” Roland said. “But Adele didn't do that. She had, I'd've known about it.”

“Roland,” Coyle said. He wasn't liking this.

But Roland Gent was going to continue, whether or not his lawyer liked it. He said, “Detective, the pleasure business is pretty simple. You provide a service to people who want to pay for it. Keep the girls clean, off the hard drugs, and you don't beat on 'em. Street pimp, he don't care. He thinks as far as next week, if that. But not every black man's a nigger, see? I know it's hard for you tell the difference.”

“Well, I appreciate the cultural enlightenment, Mr. Gent,” Hastings said. “But if you're seeking some sort of approval from me for selling women, you're wasting your time. Black, white, street, or high-rise, to me you are all the fucking same. Now I'm offering you the same deal I'm offering the white bread high-class madams downtown: cooperate with us, help us find this strangler, and you get to continue your sleazy trade. Don't cooperate, and we will shut you down.”

“Hey, I'm here, ain't I?”

“Yeah, you're here. And if your alibis check out, you'll be cleared as a murder suspect. But that doesn't mean we're through with you. Not by a damn sight.”

“Hey,” the lawyer said.

Hastings said quickly, “We need a list.”

“A list?” Roland Gent said.

“Yes. A list of customers you know Adele was associated with. We want that list today.” Hastings got to his feet. “Today, Roland. Or tomorrow morning we shut you down.”

Hastings walked out, leaving Escobar alone with the pimp and his lawyer.

Escobar came out a few minutes later. He said, “Hey, was that a performance?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Well, it was a pretty good one. Coyle says he'll have a list of names for us this afternoon.”

When it was completed, copies of the list were provided to Captain Combrink and Chief of Detectives Wulf. The names of the clients were divvied up among the detectives assigned to the task force.

Wulf congratulated Hastings on getting the list so quickly. Hastings summarized the discussion with Roland Gent and his attorney, leaving in the parts that he thought were good and bad.

Wulf, being in a supervisory position, worried about a minor detail. He said, “You didn't use the
N
word, did you?”

“No,” Hastings said, “Gent did. He was just trying to bait me, maybe put me on the defensive. It didn't work. Besides, it's all on tape if he decides to make a complaint.”

“Right,” Wulf said. “Well, be careful, though.”

“I was.” Hastings felt that he knew himself pretty well and he did not believe he was a racist. Also, he felt that he'd been conducting himself professionally long enough not to be second-guessed on such things.

Wulf raised his hand. “Okay, George.”

The tension passed and Hastings said, “Bobbie Cafaza, the madam, told Sergeant Klosterman and me that Reesa Woods was perhaps close friends with another escort named Rita Liu.”

“Rita. Not Reesa?”

“Yes, two different girls. We were trying to find out if Reesa had a regular boyfriend.”

“Bobbie Cafaza didn't tell you?”

•

“You ever see that movie
Pretty Woman?”

Hastings said, “I don't think so.”

They were in Hastings's Jaguar, driving north on Grand Boulevard. Klosterman was holding a bag of fries he'd picked up at the Wendy's drive-through.

“You remember it, don't you?” Klosterman said. “It made Julia Roberts famous. She might have been like twenty years old when she made it. You haven't seen it?”

“No, I don't remember it.”

“It was a really big hit. Richard Gere plays this rich businessman who sees Julia Roberts on a street corner. She's a hooker. He pays her like five or six thousand dollars to be his girlfriend for a week or something. Yeah, I know, the plot's so ridiculous . . . anyway, she ends up helping him become a better man, a better businessman, apparently. See, she'll screw him, but she won't kiss him because, I guess, she's principled or something. Then at the end, they fall in love and get married.”

“Yeah?” Hastings was only vaguely interested.

“George, you're missing the point.”

“What's the point?”

“The point is, the movie glamorized prostitution. It was number one at the box office. Girls, good girls, loved it. Hell, my wife even liked it. And you know her.”

“It was just a movie,” Hastings said.

“Yeah, it was just a movie, another fantasy. But kids are impressionable, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you pick up a hooker on a street corner, she ain't gonna look like Julia Roberts, I'll tell you that.”

“I know.”

“More like Eric Roberts. And this nonsense about not kissing her clients, shit, you pay 'em enough money, they'll let you do anything.”

“Okay, Joe.”

“Pretty much horseshit, is what it was.”

“Right.”

Hastings had gotten used to this. Joe Klosterman was sometimes given to ranting against pop culture, Democrats, Hollywood, Al Franken, Jimmy Carter, and sometimes figures from the Kennedy administration that Hastings wasn't familiar with. Joe Klosterman liked to talk about the things that were on his mind and Hastings usually just let him do it. Klosterman thought that George Clooney hadn't made a good movie since
Out of Sight
. He thought that Quentin Tarantino was a fraud. He thought that
Dirty Harry
was a better movie than
Mystic River
, “artistically speaking.” He thought that a draft would end what he thought was a stupid war in Iraq
because then the chickenshit politicians' sons would be at risk of getting killed too. He thought that both the Republicans and the Democrats would fuck over the cops anytime it was politically expedient, except at election time, when they both would come hat in hand seeking endorsements from the police associations and unions. Joe Klosterman could not opine at length on these subjects at home because his wife would roll her eyes and tell him to be quiet and his kids would drift out of the room. So he did it at work. He was a good officer, a good detective, and a good man, so he was tolerated.

“Hey,” Hastings said, “do you know where we're going?”

“We're going to interview Rita Liu.”

“Yeah, but do you know where we're going?”

“Her apartment?”

“Yeah. She lives at Lindell Towers on Lindell Boulevard. But, Joe, get this. She's a student at Saint Louis University.”

“Saint Louis U? No, that's just a cover.”

“No,” Hastings said. “I checked with the registrar. She's an enrolled student.”

“So she's hooking to pay her way through school?”

“Yeah. Now there's a movie.”

“So she really is a college girl.”

“At a Catholic school, no less.” Hastings shook his head in a mocking way.

“You're too cynical, George,” Klosterman said and seemed to mean it.

Hastings showed his badge to the attendant in the lobby of the apartment building, and he buzzed them up to Rita Liu's apartment, which was on the eighth floor. They rapped on her door and heard a female voice ask who it was. They told her it was the police and soon the door cracked open, the chain still on the lock.

She was an almost plain-looking Asian American girl, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and for a moment Hastings thought they had made a mistake. Wrong girl or wrong apartment. Whoever she was, she
looked
like a college student. Not at all like a high-dollar call girl.

The girl said, “Yes? What is it?”

“I'm Lieutenant George Hastings and this is Sergeant Joseph Klosterman. We're investigating the murder of Reesa Woods. We understand she was a friend of yours.”

“Let me see your identification.”

They showed her their badges.

She seemed satisfied that they were legitimate. But then she gave them a direct look and said, “I don't have to talk to you, do I?”

Hastings said, “Technically, you could plead the fifth. But I would hope you'd want to help your friend.” He had to remind himself that this kid was almost certainly Rita Liu, no matter what she looked like.

“Help her? She's dead.”

“Yeah, she is,” Hastings said. “But we haven't found her killer.”

Rita Liu closed the door. Hastings glanced at Klosterman, and then they heard her open the chain.

Once in, Hastings was surprised to see that it was a one-room efficiency apartment. Very small, very tidy. There was a day bed. A small chair. A bookshelf with college textbooks on it. Biology, zoology, physics . . . It was strange.