The Beast A DeckerLazarus Novel (32 page)

Referring to Vignette, who was walking down the hill, back to her car. Decker said, “She came to pay her respects.”

“Oh pish,” Graciela said. “She just wants her money.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” Decker said. “But maybe she deserves a little credit for civility.”

“She’s entitled to her money,” Darius said.

Decker said, “How long before you distribute funds?”

Penny said, “I assume you have a reason for asking?”

“Vignette agreed to take a polygraph next Monday. I’d like to get that done before you give her anything.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll be months before any checks are drawn. Everything has to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Do you suspect her of Dad’s murder?”

“No, but I haven’t cleared her, either. So far, she’s been . . . cooperative.”

“Do I hear hesitancy?” Sabrina asked.

“Not really. Lots of people are nervous when it comes to the police.” He turned to Penny’s second wife. She was statuesque and striking. “Are you doing anything specific after the service, Ms. Talbot?”

She gave him a half smile. “Why do you ask? Are you overwhelmed by my beauty and charm?”

Decker smiled. “I have some questions.”

“I’m here right now. Shoot.”

“It might be better to do it in private.”

“Oh please,” Graciela said. “We’re all family.”

“Private would be better,” Decker reiterated.

Sabrina checked her watch. “It’s a little after five. I could use a drink. How about seven o’clock in your ghastly interview room?”

“It is rather ghastly,” Graciela said, “but they were very polite.”

Decker smiled. “Seven is fine.” He gave her his card. “For your driver.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there at seven—prompt and ready to answer your intrusive question. I may be a bit soused, but if anything, that should work to your benefit.”

PORN, PILLS, POT,
and prostitution: the
P
vices were by no means exclusive to the San Fernando Valley, but like every city, those that
were inclined knew where to go for their fixes. It used to be that the streetwalkers didn’t come out until after the sun went down, but a poor economy translated into selling the wares at all hours. The ladies had moved locations in the twenty-five years that Marge had been on the force. There were still some hot spots on motel row in Sepulveda, but most of the gals were now congregating around Lankershim between the 5 Freeway and San Fernando Road.

The sun was sinking, casting dirty amber light on the dingy areas. The chill was setting in, and the ladies in their miniskirts with their bare legs and high, clog sandals were probably feeling it. They moved like packs of feral canines, roaming for prey. As the patrol car cruised down the street, their soulless eyes followed the black-and-white like heat-seeking missiles. Marge was at the wheel while Oliver surveyed the sidewalks. Usually the girls had an easier time confiding in policewomen, but even Marge had to admit that Scott had a good track record with them. He had an uncanny eye for picking out who would talk and always related to them with dignity.

Finally, he said, “Pull over.”

Marge double-parked in front of a group of women, ages from around forty to seventy, faces that had suffered long and hard, women who had been discarded and brutalized, most of them addicted and some mentally compromised.

Oliver and Marge got out of the car. He flashed them the V sign. “Ladies, I come in peace.”

A few errant smiles. One of the ladies stepped out of the circle. She stood around five feet six in heels and weighed around a hundred sixty, her belly protruding over the waistband of her too-tight jeans. She wore a rabbit jacket and something thin and sparkly underneath the fur. Backless sandals on her feet. Her complexion was pasty, her face was wrinkled. Black hair fell to her shoulders, and her lips were painted bright red. She chewed gum. When she smiled, a gold tooth winked at him. “You’re not from vice.”

“Homicide.”

“I knew it. Never seen you before.”

Marge said, “What’s your name, hon?”

“Coco as in Chanel, not as in Chocolate. Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Marge Dunn. He’s Detective Oliver.” She showed the woman her ID.

“You speak Spanish?” Coco asked.

“I understand.” Marge pointed to him. “He speaks pretty well.”

Oliver said, “Your English sounds fine, babe.”

“That’s because I’m American. I just wanted to know if you wanted me to translate for the gals.”

“Thank you for cooperating with your local law enforcement.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but no need to be antagonistic.”

Oliver said, “I can tell we’re all going to get along.”

“In your dreams, Slick.”

“I have very good dreams.”

Coco smiled. “Who died?”

“An old man around ninety around a week ago.”

“The one with the tiger.”

Marge smiled. A hooker who was up on current affairs. “Did you know him?”

“Just what I read in the papers. How many people around here keep tigers?” A pause. “He was murdered?”

“Yes.”

Coco turned around and translated for the women. The women all shrugged ignorance. “No one here knows any old man with a tiger.”

A woman in an ultramini spoke in Spanish. Coco interpreted. “She said eighty-nine is old for pussy.”

“You never get old guys?” Oliver said.

“Not that old. You looking for something specific, Slick?”

Marge said, “Do you know anything about Casey’s Massage and Escort?”

The woman thought a moment. “Sounds familiar.” She translated into Spanish for the women. A car slowed down, then sped up when
he realized the car that was double-parked was a cruiser. “You’re hurting my income.”

Oliver said, “What about Casey’s Escort and Massage, Coco?”

“Sounds like a call-girl service.”

“Your competition?”

“There’s enough for everyone.”

“I’m going to read some names,” Marge said. “Stop me if anyone sounds familiar. Ginger Buck?”

Coco shook her head then translated for the women. “Strike one.”

“How about Rocki Feller?” No recognition. “Georgie Harris? Amber Sweet?”

“Strike two,” Coco said.

Oliver said, “Let me ask you this, ma’am—”

“Ma’am.” Coco smiled. “I like it.”

“I pride myself on courtesy,” Oliver said. “I know this is an odd question, but do you know any ladies who’re missing fingers?”

Coco’s eyes went wide. “What . . . what did you say?”

“Maybe even missing any toes,” Marge asked.

Coco was still stunned. Another car slowed and then sped up. “Uh . . . are you almost done?”

Oliver said, “We will be as soon as you ask your ladies about it.”

Coco translated the question. Judging by the looks on their faces, Marge saw that they were equally horrified by the question. Coco answered a firm no about the missing fingers, not only for herself but also for the group she represented.

Marge thought of something. “Ask the girls if they know anyone who might wear gloves.” The pause was enough of a tell, but Coco also raised her eyebrows, which meant that Marge definitely had hit a nerve. “Just get it out.”

“She called herself Shady Lady.” Another pause. “The gloves were kind of her . . . her like trademark. She doesn’t work these parts anymore.”

“Where does she work?”

“Beats me. Last time I saw her was like six, seven months ago.”

“Describe her to me,” Marge said.

“Thinner than me, younger than me, and smarter than me.” A pause. “Maybe not smarter. Once I talked to her about doing outcall, getting off her feet and letting a professional handle her affairs. She told me she’d gone that route before. She looked at her hands and said, ‘Never again.’”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
HE SESSION WAS
taking longer than Gabe had anticipated. Yasmine’s voice was beautiful but rusty. Her breath control wasn’t there. He knew it, and even worse, she knew it. Although he hadn’t uttered a word of criticism, after the umpteenth retake, she lost control of her emotions. With wet eyes, she took off the headphones. “I need air.”

She ran out of the studio. Sohala put down the magazine and stood up, starting to go after her. Gabe held up a hand. “Can you give me a few minutes alone with her. Please.”

Her mother was unconvinced.

“I just want to calm her down. Besides, what can I possibly do in a few minutes?”

“You’re young. Who knows?” When Gabe stared at her, Sohala actually stifled a smile. “A few minutes, Gabriel. More than that, I take her home.”

Gabe looked around the studio hallways. When he didn’t see her immediately, he tried the most likely place where she’d run to. He turned the doorknob to the ladies’ bathroom and found it locked. “Open up.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Your mom only gave me a few minutes. Let me talk to you.”

Yasmine opened the door while wiping her eyes. “I’m okay. Go back. I’ll be fine.”

“You sounded beautiful—”

“I did not sound beautiful. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. I’m totally sincere. Could you use a few breathing lessons? Absolutely. But your voice is pure, and I can certainly edit out the little imperfections—”

“I don’t trust you,” Yasmine blurted out.

Gabe stopped talking. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“I don’t trust you.” Yasmine looked down. “Gabe, the last time we talked, you made everything seem so okay.” She looked at his gorgeous eyes. “But it’s not okay. I don’t want you to see Anna ever again.”

“Okay.” Gabe shrugged. “I can do that. But we both know that’s completely ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. I really don’t know what went on between you two—”

“I
told
you what went on between us two. Nothing.”

“You
slept
with her.”

“It was more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. There wasn’t even any room on the floor. I guess I could have retreated to the bathtub . . . oh wait, there’s no bathtub in her apartment.”

“I don’t want you to see her again.”

“Fine.” Gabe sighed. “Let’s go back before your mother starts hunting me down.”

“You really won’t see her again?”

“Yasmine, stop it. If you absolutely insist, I won’t see her again. But Anna is the least of your worries. I care about her because of what she did for me, but it’s not sexual. I have girls in my face like
all
the time. What are you going to do? Cut me off from fifty percent of the human race?”

Her eyes teared up, and she looked away.

“Look, you’re not the only one with an active imagination,” Gabe told her. “Your parents hate me—”

“They don’t hate you.”

“Yes, they really do. They’re constantly trying to set you up with someone else. How do you think that makes me feel? My mother had an affair with a cardiologist and left me behind to go have another family, remember?”

“Your mother wouldn’t have run away if your father wasn’t such a shit.”

“My father is a shit, but in my humble opinion my mother isn’t too far behind.” He threw up his hands. “What do you want from me? I’m a performer. I’m not saying I’m a rock star, but there is a certain percentage of the female population that is impressed with what I do. And FYI, most of my fans—male and female—are over sixty. So you have a distinct advantage.”

“I’m jealous.” Her lip trembled. “I hate being that way, but I can’t help it.”

Gabe tried to reach out to her, but she stepped away. He felt the flush of anger run through his face. “My bad! I shouldn’t have told you.”

Tears leaked down her cheek. “Now you won’t tell me
anything
!”

“It’ll be different when we’re together. We’ll both be calmer.” He tried to soothe his already frazzled nerves, but he was moments away from losing it. “Let’s just go.”

“You hate me.”

“No, I don’t hate— . . . do you want to break up? Is that what this is all about? Are you purposely trying to push me away?”

“No!”

“Then stop acting stupid. And I’m not calling you stupid. But you are
acting
stupid.” He checked his watch. “Forget it. We’re going to need another session to finish up. Let’s call it quits for today and I’ll rent more studio time. Can you do Thursday?”

“This must cost a fortune.”

Gabe smiled tightly. “Is Thursday okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Another tight smile. “Let’s go.”

“I am acting stupid.” She shook her head. “Of course you can see Anna. It’s my problem, not yours.” Sohala had come into the hallway
where they were talking. Yasmine dried her eyes on her shirtsleeve. To Gabe, she said, “I’ll see you Thursday.”

“We’re going home?” Sohala asked.

“Yes, we’re leaving. Nothing is working well today.”

“Yasmini, you sound beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mommy. Let’s go.”

Gabe said, “Mrs. Nourmand, can I have another two minutes with her?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Please don’t make me beg. I’m too exhausted to beg.”

“Hokay. You don’t move from this spot. I go get Yasmine’s purse.”

“Thank you.” When she left, Gabe said, “Do you have your phone?”

“No, it’s in my purse. Why?”

Gabe took out his iPhone, punched in a number, and forced it in her hand. “Talk.”

“What are you
doing
?” But before Yasmine could give the cell back, a female voice answered.

“Hi, Pookey.”

Yasmine felt her heart beating as her face turned red with embarrassment and anger. “It’s not Gabe. My name is Yasmine Nourmand. I’m—”

“I know who you are. Is Gabe okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. I just wanted to introduce—”

“You’re sure he’s fine?”

“Yeah, he’s fine—”

“Because he was a wreck when he left for the trial. He was scared shitless about you, that you were going to crack. I kept on telling him—from what he told me at least—that you don’t sound like the kind of girl who’d crack. Then I told him, ‘Gabe, if you want to help her, you need to calm down. Take some drugs, take booze, whack off, do something, but you can’t let her see you like this.’ The guy was a fucking basket case. I even offered to buy him a blow job. Did he tell you I offered to buy him a blow job?”