Killer Cuts: A Dead-End Job Mystery (32 page)

he girl’s eyes were lined in black, like an Egyptian princess in

a tomb painting. Her face was sprinkled with zits, badly hid

den under thick makeup. Her pink-and-black hair fell to her shoulders.

Helen and Phil were parked in his Jeep on a sunbaked street at the edge of downtown Lauderdale. The Egyptian princess noted the Jeep and the two passengers, and moved on to a hunchbacked red SUV go ing way below the posted speed limit. She cocked her hip to show off her black leather teddy, leather shorts that bared half her cheeks, and high-heeled boots that rose to her knobby knees.

“Those boots look hot,” Helen said.

“That’s the idea,” Phil said.”The young woman is selling herself.”

“She’s not old enough to be a woman,” Helen said. “She can’t be more than fifteen.”

“She’s probably younger than that,” Phil said.

“By hot, I meant the boots look uncomfortable, not sexy,” Helen said.”What kind of sleaze likes sex with children?”

“That one,” Phil said, pointing to the red SUV.

Helen studied the driver. He had a face like a slab of beef. His shoulders had gone to flab, and his arms were thick and hairy.The man was bald, fat and frowning.The Egyptian princess opened the passenger door to his misshapen SUV, smiled coyly, and slid inside.

“Can’t you stop them?” Helen said.

“I’m not a vice cop,” Phil said.”Even if we save her, what about her friends?”

He pointed at a Tila Tequila wannabe in a teeny skirt, fishnet stock ings and green platform heels, smoking a cigarette. Beside her, a short blonde with braids, Daisy Duke cutoffs and a shirt tied under her big breasts chewed gum and talked on a cell phone. A third woman in a plaid school jumper and white blouse stared at Phil’s Jeep and licked her shimmering pink lips.

“I’d guess the schoolgirl is probably the oldest,” Phil said.

These weren’t the tanned-and-toned hookers of the movies. Tila had a wide bottom, Daisy Duke had a doughy midsection and the schoolgirl was heroin-thin. Helen wondered if that hint of sickness was part of their attraction.

The SUV driver roared off with the Egyptian princess.”That fat old guy should be ashamed,” Helen said, nodding at the departing SUV.

“He should be, but he’s not,” Phil said. “This is runaway central. The pervs know where to find what they want.The bus station is only blocks away, so there’s always a new supply of girls.”

Phil drove past a boarded-up funeral home with a for sale sign. “Must be a good neighborhood if the funeral home is out of business,” Helen said.

“It’s a bad neighborhood,” Phil said.”People get shot, mugged and killed here. I wouldn’t walk down these streets after dark. That funeral home used to be family owned. It was bought out by a big chain.”

“I thought there were runaway shelters around here,” Helen said.

“There are,” Phil said. “Those juvie hookers may have stayed at a

shelter when they first hit town. But some runaways don’t like the shelter’s rules. The good ones insist on no drugs, no smoking and no booze.The kids have to go to school, do their homework, go to coun seling sessions, avoid gang clothes and weapons. They’re kicked out if they don’t abide by the rules.That’s one shelter there.”

He pointed to a windowless stucco building, white as a bleached skull and surrounded by a spiked iron fence.

“Not very friendly-looking,” Helen said.

“It’s not supposed to look friendly,” he said.”It’s a refuge for kids in trouble.The shelters hope the runaways will get off the bus and head there for help. Some will make a decent life for themselves. Others can’t follow the rules and land back on the streets. Around here, there are too many ways to make easy money.They can sell themselves, like those girls.” He nodded toward the salacious schoolgirl and the teenyskirted Tila.

“Do you think Phoebe went to a shelter?” Helen asked.

“Maybe.There’s no way I can find out,” Phil said.”Most shelters aren’t police- or PI-friendly. They refuse to say if someone is staying there. I tracked a guy wanted for murder to one shelter. He was nineteen—a year over the cutoff age to stay there. I saw him go inside, but the shelter re fused to admit he was there. I couldn’t get in. But I can go to the places that attract runaways.”

He drove past an adult bookstore and turned down a potholed al ley. Behind the bookstore was a big parking lot and a boxlike photo studio painted dusty red.Awesome Art Photo Models! Passport and Portfolio Pictures! a faded sign proclaimed. A yellowing notice in the window said, Nude Model Wanted. No Experience Necessary. Ask for Al.

“Runaways can get quick cash posing for so-called art photos,” Phil said, as he pulled into the parking lot.

“That looks like my next job.” Helen opened the Jeep’s door.

“What are you doing?” Phil said.

“Al will talk to me before he says anything to you.” Helen hopped out and slammed the door. “Wait here and don’t fuss, or the wedding’s off.”

“Helen, come back!” Phil said.

He’s not bossing me around, Helen thought, as she opened the photo studio door—then wished she hadn’t.The man behind the clut tered desk smoked a cigar that smelled like a trash fire. His thin, pock marked face seemed to disappear into a nest of red wrinkles above his dingy shirt collar.

“Are you Al?” she said.

Helen guessed the pus-green walls had been painted about the last time Al took a shower.The room stank of cigars and sweat.

“That’s me,”Al said. He tilted his head, and his neck wrinkles moved like an accordion.”What can I do you for?” He grinned as if that was a clever line.Al smiled like a hungry reptile. If Phil hadn’t been outside in the Jeep, Helen would have run.

“Uh, I’d like some portfolio pictures,” Helen said.

“Nudes.”Al grinned that snaky smile.

“Node. I mean, no. I’m an actress.”

“You’re all actresses, baby. Some of you perform standing up, some on your knees and some on your back.”

“I do summer stock,” Helen said. She cursed the quaver in her voice. “I want to see samples of your work.”

“Riiiiight,” Al said, as if he didn’t believe her.”Book is right there. Knock yourself out.”

Helen cleared a pile of girlie magazines off a scummy leatherette couch and sat down gingerly.

The pages in the sample book were stuck together. Helen peeled apart the plastic sleeves and saw the photos of barely dressed young women. Some pouted, some sucked their fingers, and one licked a phallic-looking lollipop. They had names like Kimberlee, Kaylee, and Kellee.They promised to be “open-minded, wild and playful.”

A series of ads for what looked like escort services and strip joints— except they were called “gentlemen’s clubs”—followed the photos. Helen almost dropped the book when she saw a nearly nude Phoebe winking at her.That had to be a mistake. She studied the photo. It was definitely Phoebe with long brown hair, winking over one bare shoul der.

The ad headline said, Follow my star to King’s Sexxx. Helen could see a blue star on Phoebe’s right shoulder. Phoebe was photo graphed from the back, wearing only high heels and a thong no thicker than dental floss.

“Find something you like?”Al took another puff on his smelly cigar. The neck wrinkles contracted.

“How much for this photo?” Helen asked.

“Let’s see—lighting, makeup and studio rental, plus prints—that would run you a thousand dollars. But we could work out a better price if you were nice.”

“I don’t want you to take my photo,” Helen said. “I want to buy this photo.”

“You a muff diver?”Al asked.

“I beg your pardon,” Helen said, and stood up.

“Hey, don’t get huffy on me. If you want the photo for your per sonal entertainment, it’s fifty bucks. I have to make a copy.”

“Twenty,” Helen said. “I don’t want a copy. I want this ad right here.”

“Twenty-five,” Al countered.

“Sold.” Helen found twenty-five dollars in her purse, threw it on Al’s desk and pulled the ad out of the plastic sleeve.

“Listen, lady, I don’t judge anybody, but if you ever need a real man—”

Helen was out the door before Al could finish. She jumped into the Jeep and said,”Let’s leave, quick.”

“Are you okay?” Phil asked, as he threw the Jeep in reverse.

“At least I can’t die of disgust,” Helen said. “I’ve found something you have to see. Do you want to wait till we get home, or stop some where?”

“Let’s get lunch,” Phil said. His dented Jeep rocketed down the al ley. He made a dizzying series of turns and they were back on Federal Highway, where Helen felt safer. Phil drove into the tunnel just past Broward Boulevard, then turned in to a restaurant called Dogma.

“What’s this?” Helen asked.

“Possibly the best hot dog stand in South Florida. I thought we could talk here.”

Dogma was devoted to hot dogs, from the plain classic to the Se dona, embellished with spicy salsa, grilled bacon, sliced avocado, sour cream and tomatoes. Most of the dogs were less than five dollars.

“What about the Athens?” Phil said.”That’s a hot dog with cucum bers, olives and feta cheese.”

“I’m not up for cucumbers and hot dogs,” Helen said.

“Maybe a nice, healthy salad?”

“If I want healthy, I’ll go to Whole Foods,” Helen said.”Today, I’m going to the dogs. Let’s mainline nitrates and nitrites. I want the Pitch fork with barbecue sauce, cheese, grilled bacon and grilled onions.”

“I’ll take the classic with raw onions and mustard—and a beer,” Phil said.

The hot dogs were deliciously messy. Helen wolfed hers down in four bites.

“Do you want another?” Phil asked.

“Not if I’m posing nude for Al,” Helen said.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Phil said.

“I am. Let me show you what I found.” She handed Phil a wad of

paper napkins and said, “I don’t want any grease on this ad. I just paid twenty-five bucks for it.”

“You bought an ad from a free newspaper?” Phil said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not on the stands anymore,” Helen said.”Look at the winking girl.That’s a younger Phoebe.”

“I thought she was blond,” Phil said.

“She is now, but I’ve seen her roots. Phoebe is really a brunette.”

“A very young brunette,” Phil said.”She was born in 1992.”

“That makes her seventeen now,” Helen said. “How old was she when she worked at King’s strip club?”

“This ad is two years old,” he said, looking at the date at the top of the page.”So she would have been about fifteen.”

“King would still be responsible for having an underage minor working at his club, right?” Helen said.

“I think so,” Phil said. “He might beat the underage rap in court, but it would ruin his entry into Lauderdale society. Someone who ex ploited young girls wouldn’t be invited to the A-list parties.Those old dowagers would bar the door when he showed up, no matter how fat his charity checks were.”

Helen looked at Phoebe’s nipped-in waist and large breasts—and her enormous feet in those high heels—and felt like someone had stuck a stilletto in her brain. “She’s the blonde who fought with King right before he died.That was her in the blue dress.We’ve got to see Mireya, the photographer’s assistant. She’s in danger.”

“I’ve missed something here,” Phil said. “We were talking about Phoebe.”

“Phoebe’s the killer,” Helen said.”Mireya photographed her push ing the groom into the pool and stomping on his hand.”

“Why didn’t Mireya go to the police?”

“She let King die so she could blackmail Phoebe,” Helen said.”Why else would Mireya give up a good job in this market? What’s she going to live on now? Phoebe is out of work and can’t pay her. If Mireya has been pushing Phoebe for more money, she’s in danger.”

“You’ve just set an Olympic record for jumping to conclusions,” Phil said.

“No!” Helen said.”I’m serious.We have to warn her. I have Mireya’s new address from her neighbor.We have to drive there.”

“Now?” Phil said.

“It’s only two o’clock, and I don’t have her phone number.”

“How do you know the bride didn’t kill King? That was Honey’s white wedding gown in a corner of the photo.”

“The bride didn’t try to frame Miguel Angel for the murder,” Helen said.

“That makes no sense.”

“Humor me,” Helen said.