The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (12 page)

The cold plastic upholstery of his car felt like ice
against his back, and he began to shiver. He turned the heater on
high, the first blast of cold air making him shiver even more. As he
drove through the rain he tried not to think about the case, but it
was no use. Detectives Kane and Spivak might still turn up something
at Lagniappe, something more, he trusted, than an owner who was
accused of rape by a discharged employee. Standard stuff. Still,
nothing was too obvious or farfetched to be discounted.

A couple of times during the drive he noticed the
same car in his rearview mirror and wondered if he was being
followed. Who the hell follows a cop? He parked on Eleventh Street
near Jefferson Hospital and walked in the rain to Doc Watson's. The
car that had been behind him was nowhere in sight. Getting jumpy in
your old age, he told himself.

Inside Doc's he got a booth near the front window and
waved to Barry Sandrow, the owner. He read over the dinner specials
while he waited for his regular drink. When the waitress set it in
front of him, he heard a voice say, "I'll have the same."
He looked up to see a young woman standing beside his booth. She was
dressed in a denim jacket, leather skirt and boots, had streaked red
hair cut punk-style and was wearing sunglasses. He indicated the
empty seat across from him. She didn't introduce herself, didn't need
to. Sloan knew her. When the waitress returned with her drink she
raised her glass. "Here's looking at you." Sloan nodded and
raised his glass to her.

"What are you doing here?" he said.

"I followed you from the Roundhouse. A man in
your line of work really should be more observant."

"It's probably the flu," he said. "I
picked up your tail, decided it was my imagination."

Her name was Delores Inverso, beloved daughter of
Nicholas Inverso, near the top of the Philadelphia mob. Which could
change at any time. Both her brothers had already died in the
eight-year-old intra-family quarrel that had already taken a toll of
some forty prominent mob figures. Many of her father's interests, as
he liked to point out, were legitimate, and among other members of
the family his was regarded as a voice of reason.

"You're wearing your hair different," Sloan
said. "What does your father think of it?"

"I'm in art school now. He digs artists have to
be free to express themselves?

"I'd heard you were in some school. How's it
going?"

"Good, except Dad wants me to get to where I can
paint church ceilings. You know, a lot of fat nudes."

"You don't like to do nudes?"

"Boring. Fabric design is my thing."

"A good field. If memory serves your family has
some interests in the garment industry."

She stiffened at his remark. "That's history,
Sloan. You should know that."

He smiled, blew his nose. The mob didn't much like to
use women, but since her brothers were killed he'd heard Delores had
been filling in. A capable lady.

"Look," she said, getting to business, "we
know about you finding this Terri DiFranco's body. We want to know
what you're going to do about it. People from the neighborhood have
been around to see Dad. He's very interested in clearing up this
missing girls business, plus nailing the DiFranco killer."

Typical, Sloan thought. Like most of his brethen, he
still lived  in South Philly, in the blue-collar neighborhood he
was raised in. They liked a low profile.

"TeIl your father we're on the job. As he knows,
until we had a body there was nothing we could do."

"He's glad you're on the case," she said.

"Tell him thanks."

"He wants to know what you're going to do about
this Lagniappe connection."

Sloan was surprised, quickly realized he shouldn't
be. The mob had more informants than he did. For the record he said
he didn't know what she was talking about.

She took a sip of her drink. "Dad said you'd say
that. He also told me to tell you he did some checking. He said
there's a man . . . he'd rather not mention the name . . . who
approached a man Dad knows about getting him some young girls.
Twelve-thirteen-year-olds. You know the deal."

"And this man hangs out at Lagniappe?"

"I can't say any more. We don't want to be
connected to this on any of your records——"

"Wait a minute. Cut the damn tease. You dangle
some unnamed creep who buys teenagers and then you clam up. Tell your
daddy for me that thanks for nothing and you can pay for your own
drink."

"Simmer down, we do what we can and I know what
you're trying to do and it won't work. I won't be baited. You get all
I can give you. We want this cleaned up, and we want it fast. People
like to blame people like my dad for all kinds of lousy things and it
hurts business. So good luck, Sloan, and we'll be watching to see how
you do. If you don't make the play your way we'll make it ours and
you can read about it in the papers. And for God's sake, take care of
that cold. We need our police . . ."

She even pecked him on the cheek as she tossed a
tenner on the table and ambled out.
 
 

CHAPTER 9

' T WAS just after eight when Laura Ramsey finished
the story on Terri DiFranco. What had seemed so easy earlier in the
day had turned out more difficult than expected. Eventually the
writing came down to a series of judgment calls—what to tell to
sell papers, what to hold back to allow the family some privacy and
dignity.

The rain was still coming down as she walked to the
parking lot for her car, and once she'd begun the drive down Spring
Garden Street toward Delaware Avenue she told herself that she should
go home, open a can of soup, take a hot bath and go to bed. But what
she really craved was some junk food. She might pay for it later, but
right now it was definitely the ticket: something wonderfully
unhealthy washed down with a cold beer. If she'd been home in Texas,
Mexican food would be perfect, but not here in Philly.

Passing the Pier 30 tennis courts on the Delaware
River, she considered driving down to Oregon Avenue for a hot sausage
sandwich and a bag of chips from the Doggie Diner but decided against
it because it was too early. She liked to save the Doggie Diner for
those uncontrollable cravings that come in the small hours of the
morning. Instead she turned off at Washington Avenue, taking Front
Street to Costello's Cheese Steaks, found a parking place three or
four car lengths away and walked slowly to the entrance, head down,
too beat even to hurry out of the rain.

Costello's: sheet paneling, drop ceiling, fake
Tiffany lamps, two video games, jukebox, cigarette machine the size
of Kansas. The place was quiet except for a covey of teenage girls
gathered around the jukebox, which was playing Madonna's "Live
to Tell."

Laura went directly to the counter to give her order
to a brunette with Annette Funicello hair—a double pepper,
mushroom-and-cheese steak with pizza sauce, fried onions and hot
peppers. She hoped she would have the control to eat only half and
save the rest.

Waiting for her order, she heard one of the girls at
the jukebox call out, "Hey, ain't you the reporter who was there
when they found Terri this morning?"

"Yes."

Turning to her friends, the girl said, "See, I
told you it was her."

The pack moved over to Laura. All three of them wore
skin-hugging jeans and tight sweaters. The one who had just spoken
was wearing short boots with her jeans tucked into the tops; the
other two wore sneakers. Two were smoking, and the one who wasn't was
holding a pack of Marlboros.

Taking a drag on her cigarette, the leader said, "My
mom told me she saw you there this morning, you know, when they found
her . . ."

Laura wondered which woman was her mother.

"You going to write about it for the paper?"

"It'll be in tomorrow's edition."

She waited for them to press her for details, but
they didn't and then she understood that with the neighborhood jungle
telegraph they probably knew more about the case than she did.

"Do you think they'll catch the guy?"

"The police think so."

"We hear it was the boyfriend that done it,"
said the girl with the Marlboros.

"The police aren't saying. What's he like?"

"All we know is what Terri used to say. None of
us ever saw him but if you want to find out more about him you should
talk to Marie. I don't think she ever saw him, but she was Terri's
best friend. She knows more about him than anyone else," the
leader said, pointing to a girl hunched over the jukebox.

Marie turned out to be something of an ugly duckling,
with spiky red hair, glasses and a body that had not yet outgrown its
baby fat. She was wearing sweatpants, sneakers and a football jersey
several sizes large for her. The jersey was green and white, the
Eagles' colors, with the number seven on both sides and the name
"Jaworski," the great quarterback, on the back. The girls
practically forced Laura toward the jukebox to meet Marie.

"Hey, Marie, this is that reporter we were
talking about."

"I know." She didn't look up, kept her eyes
on the jukebox selections.

Laura, feeling exhausted, just went along. "Hello,
Marie."

Marie didn't speak, and the leader put in, "We
were just telling her how you was Terri's best friend and if anybody
knew anything about her boyfriend it'd be you—"

"I was right here. I heard you. I wasn't in
Camden, you know."

"Don't pay attention to her. She's upset.
Wouldn't you be if your first day back at school you heard they found
your best friend's body?" said the leader.

"You were out of school?" At this point
Laura was just being conversational.

"Yeah."

"Were you just out or did you have a touch of
the bug that's been going around?"

"I had the bug."

"How long were you out?"

No answer.

"She had a bad case of it. She was out a couple
of weeks," the leader said.

"That's a long time to be laid up."

"Yeah, well, I had it, then I got over it, and
then I got it again. Jesus."

"I hope it's better now."

"It's better."

Marie was giving no easy openings, so Laura decided
to bull ahead. "I was there this morning and I saw Terri's body.
I've written a story about it for tomorrow's paper and I'm going to
write follow-ups until they catch the guy who did it. But I need to
know things about her, things other people don't know. What I'm doing
isn't going to bring her back, but maybe it'll help the police catch
him, or at least keep some other young girl, like yourself, from
getting herself into the same terrible situation. Will you help me?"

"Would I get my name in the paper?" Still
looking down at the jukebox.

"Do you want your name in the paper?"

Marie now looked at her. "God, no."

"Then it won't be. I guarantee it."

Marie shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

"Why don't you just tell me about Terri? What it
was like to be her friend?"

What she got was a picture of lifelong friendship, of
youthful high jinks, of two girls who were tight as only adolescents
could be. When she mentioned "Peter," Marie almost
physically cringed, and only reluctantly told how Terri had met
Peter, how much she had loved him, and how upset she was the night
they were having pizza and she saw the two women get into Peter's
car.

Laura pressed on. "But you didn't see the women
get into the car, right?"

"That's right."

"What about the car, did you see it?"

"No, Terri didn't tell me about it till later so
I didn't see the car."

"Still, you must have seen the car at some other
time. I mean, as close friends as you were and as many dates as they
had, you must have seen it . . ."

"No, Terri wanted to show him off, but him being
an undercover cop, she said he couldn't afford to have people in the
neighborhood get to know him."

"Do you believe he was an undercover cop?"

"I guess not, not now. But Terri did."

"Did you know about the depot and what Terri was
doing there?"

"No."

"You were her best friend. You must have known
about it."

"Hey, I don't lie. I was sick, that's when I got
the bug."

"Wait a minute," said the leader. "We
had an English test that week. You didn't get the bug then, you got
it later. I remember you were there for the test—"

"Look, I'm telling you what happened. If you
don't want to believe me then to hell with all of you. I'm going
home."

She pushed her way through the other girls and was
out the door before Laura could stop her. Laura threw some money on
the counter and hurried out, her cheese steak forgotten.