Unfinished Business (21 page)

It wasn’t a suggestion, and everyone
complied. We moved across the parking lot to the door into the
restaurant. Grimaldi showed her badge to the hostess, and asked for
a big table out of the way. We ended up in the back corner, away
from most of the hustle and bustle. When the waitress appeared with
five glasses of water, I ordered a ginger ale and a turkey
sandwich.

“Anyone else?” She glanced around the
table.

Everyone else shook their heads, although
the girl looked tempted. I smiled at her. “Why don’t you have
something, too? That way I don’t have to eat alone.”

She hesitated, just long enough for Grimaldi
to say, “Make it two, please. And a pot of coffee.”

The waitress nodded and withdrew. Grimaldi
turned back to the rest of us. Or them, I guess I should say. “Do
you know who I’m talking about, or would you like to see a
picture?”

“A picture?” The girl squeaked the words
out. “Of the
body
?”

Grimaldi nodded. “I should warn you, it
isn’t pretty. She was tortured before her throat was cut.”

There was that word ‘tortured’ again. I
lifted my glass and gulped some water, while the other three women
processed the news.

“Her name was Kelly,” older redhead said
eventually. “She said she was nineteen, but I think she was
lying.”

The blonde nodded. “She said she was from
Chicago, but it sounded more like Minnesota or Wisconsin to
me.”

“Any of you know a last name?” Grimaldi had
pulled out her notebook and was writing things down.

They both shook their heads. “We don’t stand
on formality around here,” the redhead informed her.

“What about you?” Grimaldi turned to the
young brunette. She was closer to the dead girl in age—Kelly, I
told myself; the dead girl’s name was Kelly—so of all the
prostitutes, it was most likely that the two of them had been
confidantes.

The brunette looked like Bambi in the
headlights, with small, white teeth sunk into her bottom lip and
her eyes enormous, fringed by soft, curved lashes. She wasn’t even
wearing any makeup, in stark contrast to the other two, whose faces
were so thickly painted I was surprised I didn’t see cracks.

“I have to notify her family that she’s
dead,” Grimaldi added.

“Her mother kicked her out,” Bambi said.

Grimaldi’s brows rose. “She tell you
this?”

Bambi nodded. “Kelly said her mother’s
boyfriend came on to her. The mother blamed Kelly.”

Grimaldi scribbled.

“I don’t know whether it was true or not.”
She looked miserable. “She said it was, but...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grimaldi said. “She’s
dead. Whatever it was, happened in the past. Did she tell you where
she came from? Was she a local girl?”

Bambi hesitated, and into the pause came the
waitress, with a pot of coffee and three mugs looped through her
fingers. “Sandwiches coming right up,” she told me as she spread
the cups around and filled them up. “Ginger ale, too.”

“Thank you.”

“You expecting?”

I nodded.

“Must be tough being a pregnant cop.”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m not...”

And then I caught Grimaldi’s eye and closed
my mouth. She probably wasn’t supposed to take a civilian with her
when she interviewed possible witnesses.

Then again, she probably wasn’t supposed to
stand by while I claimed—or didn’t disclaim—being a cop,
either.

“Milwaukee,” Bambi said.

“Did either of you see her yesterday?”
Grimaldi wanted to know, as the waitress came back and put a thick,
white plate with a sandwich and a handful of chips on the table in
front of me and in front of Bambi. I thanked her, and Bambi looked
like she’d died and gone to heaven.

“Go ahead,” Grimaldi told her, “eat.”

She turned to the other two, who were both
sipping coffee out of thick mugs of the same white stoneware. Along
with the sandwiches and drinks, the question was still on the
table, so when Grimaldi arched her brows, the two looked at one
another.

“I saw her last night,” the blonde said, as
I took a bite of sandwich and chewed. Not bad, but the turkey was
the packaged kind from the refrigerator section of the grocery
store. Then again, it was a truck stop, so the clientele probably
wasn’t all that picky. Bambi certainly didn’t seem to mind that it
wasn’t haute cuisine. “She was alive then. But I got busy, and I
didn’t see her again after that.”

Grimaldi nodded. “You?” she asked the
redhead.

She shook her head. “It was a Saturday. Busy
night. I didn’t see her at all.”

“You?” Grimaldi asked Bambi.

Bambi swallowed. “I saw her. It was late.
After midnight. We were standing there talking when this guy came
up to us.”

I felt a sort of buzz shiver up my spine,
and I think Grimaldi must have, too, because her eyes sharpened. “I
imagine a lot of guys must come up to you. What was different about
this one?”

“He was creepy,” Bambi said, with a shimmy.
I think Grimaldi may have been tempted to roll her eyes, but if so,
she resisted.

“Are you sure you’re not just saying that
because you know she’s dead?”

Bambi shrugged.

“Can you describe him?” I asked, taking the
role of good cop, since we obviously needed one.

“Old,” Bambi said. “At least thirty-five.
Really short hair. Brown eyes. Brown skin.”

“African-American?” Grimaldi asked. She was
scribbling again.

Bambi shook her head. “Not that brown.”

“Tall? Short? Fat? Skinny?”

Bambi said he’d been of medium height and on
the thin side, with short, dark hair and brown eyes. The
description could fit fifty percent of the male population.

“I need you to come downtown with me,”
Grimaldi said, and corrected, with a glance at me, “with
us
,
to look at some mugshots.”

Bambi’s eyes widened and her voice quavered.
“Are you arresting me?”

This time Grimaldi did roll her eyes. “Did I
say I was arresting you? I need you to look at mugshots, so we can
find this guy.”

Since we already knew who the guy was, I
figured the detective must have some ulterior motive for wanting
Bambi to go downtown. Or maybe it was procedure: we knew Hernandez
was involved, but if Bambi could pick out his picture, it would be
additional, and independent, proof.

“Do I have to?” She glanced at her
friends.

“When the police ask you to do something,” I
said, “it’s usually a good idea to do it.”

Bambi swallowed noisily, but she nodded.
Grimaldi turned to the other two. “Neither of you saw Kelly leave
with anyone?”

They both shook their heads.

“Either of you work here four years
ago?”

They exchanged a glance, but neither tried
to deny that they were working. I kept an eye on the blonde,
because I thought she might fit Rafe’s description of one of the
girls he’d seen with Hernandez back then. Older, yes, but it had
been four years, and in the kind of life she led, I’m sure she aged
more than a year every twelve months.

But she shook her head.

“I did,” the redhead said.

Grimaldi focused on her. “I’m trying to
track down two girls from back then, who were also in the
commercial company business.”

Was that what they called prostitution these
days? Commercial company?

“A blonde,” Grimaldi said, “and a Hispanic
girl. They would have been eighteen to twenty at the time, give or
take.” She described them the way Rafe had, which wasn’t very much
help at all, considering that the descriptions could have fit any
number of women. “They went off with a customer and may not have
come back.”

The redhead shook her head. “Can’t think of
anyone like that. People come and go, you know. But if a trucker
took a girl with him, we woulda noticed. This is a good place to
work. People care about each other here.”

Bambi and the blonde both nodded. I wasn’t
sure whether to laugh or cry.

“There was a Hispanic girl, though,” the
redhead added. “Maria. But she didn’t go off with a trucker. A guy
in a car came and picked her up. He looked like he was Spanish,
too. I figured he was her pimp. Or maybe her daddy.” She shrugged.
Her assets jiggled under the halter top.

“Did she come back?” Grimaldi asked. “Didn’t
you think that was cause for concern?”

“Listen.” The redhead leaned forward across
the table. “We get all kinds here. Kids who get kicked outta home,
like Kelly. Runaways, like Naomi here.”

Bambi flushed. Grimaldi glanced at her, but
didn’t speak. The redhead continued. “Lot lizards, who’ve been here
for years. That’s their business. But I see any pimps beating on
their girls, or any small kids working the trade, I tell the folks
in the diner, and they call the cops.”

Grimaldi nodded. “We appreciate the heads
up.”

“Yes’m. I don’t want none of that here. This
is a nice place. We take care of each other here.”

“So about Maria,” I said, and she turned to
me.

“Like I said. This guy came and picked her
up. I figured pimp, or family. I figured he took her somewhere else
to work, or he took her home. Either way, it was none of my
business. She didn’t look like she was afraid of him.”

She wouldn’t have known any better, I
imagined.

“But she didn’t come back,” Grimaldi said,
and the redhead shook her head. “Any idea what her last name might
have been?”

“Sorry. Like I said, we don’t stand on
formality around here.”

“Know anything else that might pertain?”

They both shook their heads.

“Then you’re free to go,” Grimaldi said. She
pushed away from the table, and threw a couple of bills down,
enough to cover the food and coffee. And my ginger ale. “Let’s move
it out, ladies.”

I put the rest of my sandwich down and wiped
my fingertips with the paper napkin. “You couldn’t wait until I’ve
finished eating?”

“Places to go, people to see,” Grimaldi said
briskly. “Murders to solve.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I pushed back from the
table.

“You can take it with you,” Grimaldi said,
nodding to the sandwich.

“That’s OK. It wasn’t all that good. And my
stomach has settled some.” Although who knew how long that would
last?

“Then let’s get this show on the road.” She
stuck her hands in her pockets and looked pointedly at
Bambi—Naomi—who stuffed the last of her sandwich in her mouth. Her
cheek bulged like a chipmunk’s.

“Nice to meet you ladies.” Grimaldi put two
business cards on the table for the two older prostitutes. “If you
think of anything else, contact me. And if you see the guy again,
the one Kelly left with last night, or the one Maria left with four
years ago, don’t go anywhere with him.”

They both shook their heads.

“Come on.” She shooed me and Naomi ahead of
her toward the door to the outside. Naomi looked close to tears,
and kept glancing over her shoulder to see if her friends would
stop Grimaldi from taking her. Of course, neither said a word.

And then we were outside in the fresh, if
hot, air, and on our way to the sedan.

“Do you have anything other than that?”
Grimaldi wanted to know, nodding to the backpack slung over Naomi’s
shoulder. “Suitcase? Change of clothes?”

Naomi shook her head.

Grimaldi opened the door to the back seat
and gestured her in. Naomi looked like she was thinking of bolting,
but Grimaldi’s raised brows must have convinced her otherwise. She
crawled into the sedan and pulled the backpack in behind her.
Grimaldi closed the door, and opened the passenger door. “Come on,
Ms.... Savannah.”

“Thank you, Detective.” I got in and closed
my door while Grimaldi walked around the car to the driver’s side.
In the back, Naomi had just figured out that there was no way out
of a police car, unless the police opened the door for you from the
outside.

“Don’t worry,” Grimaldi said, eyes on the
rearview mirror as she reversed out of the parking space. Or maybe
she was looking at Naomi. Her next words indicated that she was.
“You’re not in any trouble. I just want to know if you can pick out
the guy you saw.”

Naomi nodded, but sniffed. Grimaldi turned
to me. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. Although it wasn’t
necessary for you to pay for my sandwich and ginger ale.”

“I’ll put it on the expense account,”
Grimaldi said and swung the car into traffic. “Consider it payment
for taking you back there.”

“Back where? The house?”

“The crime scene,” Grimaldi corrected.

“We have to go back there?”

“We need positive identification of the
victim. I figure she’s still there. Easier to take Naomi there than
wait for the body to be transported to the ME’s office.”

I guess. Although it struck me as somewhat
cold, walking a young girl into that scene.

Then again, Grimaldi was the detective and I
wasn’t, so she probably knew what she was doing. I settled back
against the seat and tried not to think about how little I,
personally, wanted to see the body again.

Detective Grimaldi’s brilliance didn’t become clear to me until
we’d been in the bedroom at 101 Potsdam and Naomi had positively
identified the victim as her friend Kelly. She was—to use a
phrase—as white as a ghost when we walked back down the stairs, and
shivering as though she’d encountered one. Grimaldi had to take her
arm to steady her, and help her into the car, where she dissolved
into hysterical sobbing in the back seat. I looked at Grimaldi,
feeling like this had been a very bad idea, and she told me, “Give
it a minute.”

Sure
. I sat back and prepared to
wait.

By the time we reached police headquarters
in downtown, not very many minutes at all from the Potsdam area,
Naomi had cried herself out, and was limp and flushed like one of
Dix’s kids after a temper tantrum. She didn’t say a word when
Grimaldi extricated her from the back seat and walked her into the
building. She didn’t say a word when we walked into Grimaldi’s
office and she put Naomi in one of the chairs in front of the desk
and handed her a box of tissues, either.