Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

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      “That’s him.”

      “Scrawny thing.”

      “I’d like to look over the file.”

      “Andrick has it locked, and I don’t have the key.”

      “I’ll wait.”

      Medino shrugged. “Suit yourself. Coffeepot’s over to the right.”

      “Thanks.”

      Decker poured himself a cup—black mud. He sipped as he walked back to the desk. “You guys have gotten carpets and new desks.”

      “No thanks to the city. Some civilian donated them. Only thing the city’s given us this past year was a few push-button phones. Their idea of state-of-the-art equipment.”

      “At least you got the phones.”

      “Yeah,” Medino said. “But only one per unit. City doesn’t want us to become too spoiled. The individual dicks still have rotaries. Just look at the crappy colors they give us—pinks and blues and reds. Now how can you have a professional image with a pink phone? Place looks like a nursery school.”

      “I noticed the playpen back there.”

      Medino nodded. “We get our share of kids dumped at the doorstep.”

      “I just got one of those,” Decker said. “She wasn’t dumped at the station. I found her wandering the streets. No one’s claimed her.”

      “How old?”

      “Two.”

      “Black?”

      “White.”

      Medino shrugged.

      Decker said, “Her pajamas had blood on them.”

      “That’s unusual,” Medino said. “Kid okay?”

      “Appears to be fine,” Decker said. “Can’t say I’m feeling too optimistic about her mama, though.”

      “Another one bites the dust,” Medino said. “What’s your connection to the gimp? He wanted for something out there?”

      “He’s an old buddy of mine,” Decker said.

      Medino whistled. “You should start hunting for some new friends.”

      “How deep is his shit?”

      “From what I remember, neck high and still rising.”

      “What do you know about the victim?” Decker said. “Besides the fact that she was a whore.”

      “Not much more than that,” Medino said.

      “Do you know if she had a rep for tricking with rough johns?”

      “No idea,” Medino said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try Vice?”

      Decker asked, “Chris Beauchamps still work Vice here?”

      “Baby-faced Beau?” Medino said. “You bet. One of our best undercover men. Looks so fucking sincere. I think he came in about an hour ago. Go up and talk to him. I’ll buzz you when Andrick is back on my nifty new push-button intercom. LAPD goes high tech.”

      “Myra Steele,” Beauchamps said. “Yeah, I’ve got a file on her somewhere.”

      Decker stared at the Vice detective, finding it hard to take the kid seriously. Surfer-blond hair, deep blue eyes, Malibu tan—the kind of looks that screamed party hardy, let’s shoot the curl.

      Beauchamps pulled out a folder and said, “Here we go. Old Myra Steele, aka Plum Pie, Cherry Pie, Brown Sugar—a lot of them use that moniker.” He handed Decker a file. “The only thing I have on her was a bust three months ago.”

      “That bust happened when Letwoine Monroe was still her pimp,” Decker said, scanning the papers. “Before he was whacked.”

      “Right,” Beauchamps said.

      Decker asked, “Was he whacked in Hollywood?”

      “I don’t know where he was whacked, but we found him here, stuffed in the trunk of a black Caddy stolen from North Hollywood.”

      Decker said. “Myra Steele doesn’t look eighteen to me. She barely looks pubescent.”

      “Her birth certificate says eighteen,” Beauchamps said. “And she’s pubescent, believe me. I’ve seen her on the streets couple of times since, her tits are more than ample for the halters she wears. Those photos knock a couple of years off of her.”

      “Who’s Myra’s old man now?” Decker asked.

      “Letwoine’s ladies were divided by the other pimps in the area,” Beauchamps said. “Some went to a Mideastern prick named Yusef Sabib, some went to Willy Black, a couple went to Clementine—”

      Decker groaned.

      “I thought he was your buddy,” Beauchamps said, smiling.

      Straight white teeth. Guy should be selling toothpaste instead of busting whores.

      Decker said, “Everyone needs a pet maggot. Do you know who Steele went with?”

      “No,” Beauchamps said. “And she didn’t volunteer his name when Andrick asked her. I know that ’cause Andrick asked me if I knew the name of her man. I put the word out, but so far have come up blank. There’s some new dudes in town—Cubans. Marielitos. Meanest sons of bitches I’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with. Into weird cult things—”

      “Santeria?”

      “You got it.”

      “I worked with Miami PD for two years,” Decker said. “We had our fair share of Castro’s rejects.”

      “So you know about the dudes,” Beauchamps said. “They threaten grave bodily harm to women with loose lips. Might be one of them owns Myra.”

      “They have names?”

      “I’ve crossed paths with only two. They actually weren’t so bad, because they were really young. But their older brothers and father …” Beauchamps waved his hand in the air and pursed his lips into a whistle. “One called himself Conquistador, the other was El Cid.”

      Decker laughed.

      “Yeah, real imaginative tags.” Beauchamps paused, then said, “Why are you so interested in Ms. Steele’s pimp?”

      “I just want to know who he is,” Decker said. “A friend of mine was accused of raping ole Plum Pie, and before I pass sentence on the sucker, I’d like to make sure he’s really guilty of the crime.”

      “The hillbilly gimp,” Beauchamps СКАЧАТЬ