“How did you …” Amanda sank down in her chair. She was almost afraid to touch the card. Then she did. “Is it real?”
“Yep.” Vanessa beamed.
Amanda could not stop staring at the card. “Is this a joke?” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one seemed to care. “How did you get this?”
“Rachel Foster over in dispatch told me about it. All you have to do is show them six months’ worth of pay stubs.”
“Are you kidding me?” Amanda hadn’t been able to get her apartment without Duke guaranteeing the rent. If not for the city providing her a car, she’d be on foot. “They just gave it to you? Just like that?”
“That’s right.”
“They didn’t ask to speak to your husband or your father or—”
“Nope.”
Amanda was still dubious. She handed back the card. Franklin Simon was all right, but they were doomed to bankruptcy if they were handing out credit so freely. “Listen, can you do me a favor today and ride with Peterson?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
The guttural sound of someone vomiting filled the room. It was joined by other men making similar disgusting noises. Butch Bonnie walked into the station, his fists held up as if he was Muhammad Ali. Amanda had forgotten how ill he’d been at the crime scene last Friday. Obviously, the rest of the squad had not. People clapped and laughed. There were even cheers from the black side of the room. Butch did a sort of victory spin as he made his way toward Amanda.
He leaned on the table. “Hey, gal, you got my stuff for me?”
Amanda reached into her bag for the typed report. She dropped the pages on the table beside him.
“Why you bein’ so cold?” he asked. “You on the rag?”
“It’s what your partner did to Evelyn Mitchell,” Amanda shot back. “He’s an animal.”
Butch scratched the side of his cheek. He looked rough. His clothes were wrinkled. His face was unshaven. There was a distinct odor of alcohol and stale cigarettes sweating from his pores.
Amanda stared straight ahead. “Is there anything else?”
“Jesus, Mandy. Cut him some slack. His wife’s been giving him enough crap at home. He don’t need to come to work and catch lip off another skirt.”
She forced herself not to soften. “Your notes had a factual error.”
Butch tossed a cigarette into his mouth. “Whattaya talkin’ about?”
“You said you ID’d Lucy Bennett off a license in her purse. The evidence receipt didn’t list a license of any type.”
“Shit,” he mumbled, then, “S’cuse the language.” He skimmed his notebook, compared it to her typed report. “Yeah, I see it.”
“How did you ID the victim?”
He lowered his voice. “Off a CI.”
“Who?”
“Never you mind who,” he told her. “Just fix the report.”
“You know they can’t change the evidence receipt. The carbons are in triplicate.”
“Then change the report so it says someone recognized her.” He handed back the typed report. “There was a witness on scene. Call him Jigaboo Jones. I don’t care. Just make it work.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “You’re the one whose signature goes at the bottom.”
He looked nervous, but said, “Yeah, I’m sure. Just do it.”
“Butch—” She stopped him before he could leave. “How did Hank Bennett find out his sister was dead? You usually specify that in your notes, but this time, there’s nothing.” Amanda pressed a bit harder. “Lucy didn’t have a record, so it seems strange that you and Landry were able to locate next of kin so quickly.”
He stared at her, unblinking. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. She didn’t know if Butch was just now asking himself the question or wondering why Amanda had posed it. Finally, he told her, “I don’t know.”
She studied him, trying to detect duplicity. “It seems like you’re telling me the truth.”
“Jesus, Mandy, hanging around Evelyn Mitchell’s turning you into the wrong kinda gal.” He pushed himself up from the table. “Get that report back to me first thing tomorrow morning.” He waited for her to nod, then went to the front of the room.
“Wow,” Vanessa said. She’d been strangely quiet. “What’s going on with you and Butch?”
Amanda shook her head. “I need to make a phone call.”
There were two telephones in the front of the room, but Amanda didn’t want to make her way through the crowd. Nor did she want to run into Rick Landry, who’d just walked into the station. The clock on the wall was straight up at eight o’clock. Sergeant Woody was still not here. Amanda wasn’t surprised. Woody had a reputation for hitting the bars before work. She might as well use his office.
Nothing much had changed since Luther Hodge had vacated the space. Paperwork was scattered across the blotter. The ashtray was brimming over. Woody hadn’t even bothered to get a new mug for his coffee.
Amanda sat down behind the desk and dug into her purse for her address book. The black leather was cracked and peeling. She thumbed to the C’s and traced her finger down to Pam Canale’s number at the Housing Authority. They weren’t close friends—the woman was Italian—but Amanda had helped Pam’s niece out of some trouble a few years ago. Amanda was hoping the woman wouldn’t mind returning the favor.
She checked the squad room before dialing Pam’s number, then waited while the call was transferred.
“Canale,” Pam said, but Amanda hung up. Sergeant Luther Hodge was heading back toward the office. His office.
She stood from the desk so fast that the chair hit the wall.
“Miss Wagner,” Hodge said. “Has there been a promotion about which I am uninformed?”
“No,” she said, then, “Sir.” Amanda scuttled around the desk. “I’m sorry, sir. I was making a phone call.” She stopped, trying to appear less flustered. The fact was that she was stunned. “Did you get transferred back here?”
“Yes, I did.” He waited for her to move out of his path so that he could sit down. “I suppose you think I’m holding water for your father.”
Amanda had been about to leave, but she couldn’t now. “No, sir. I was just making a phone call.” She remembered Evelyn, her boldness in confronting Hodge. “Why did you send me to Techwood last week?”
He had been about to sit at his desk. He paused midair, hand holding back his tie.
“You told us to investigate a rape. There was no rape.”
Slowly, he sat down. He indicated the chair. “Have a seat, Miss Wagner.”
Amanda started to close the door.
“Leave that open.”
She did as she was told, sitting opposite him at the desk.
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Miss Wagner?”
“I—”
“I realize your father still has many friends in this department, but I will not be intimidated. Is that clear?”
“Intimidated?”
“Miss Wagner, I may not be from around here, but I can tell you one thing for sure. One thing you can take straight back to your daddy: this nigger ain’t goin’ back into the fields.”
She felt her mouth working, but no words would come out.
“Dismissed.”
Amanda couldn’t move.
“Should I repeat my order?”
Amanda stood. She walked toward the open door. Her competing emotions compelled her to keep moving, to work this out in private, to formulate a more reasoned response than what actually came out of her mouth. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
Hodge had been writing something on a piece of paper. Probably a request to have her transferred to Perry Homes. His pen stopped. He stared at her, waiting.
Words got jumbled in her mouth. “I want to work. To be good at … I need to be good at …” She forced herself to stop speaking long enough to collect her thoughts. “The girl you sent us out to interview. Her name was Jane Delr
ay. She wasn’t raped. She wasn’t injured. There wasn’t a scratch on her. She was fine.”
Hodge studied her a moment. He put down his pen. He sat back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of his stomach.
“Her pimp came in. His street name is Juice. He chased Jane out of the apartment. He made suggestive overtures toward me and Evelyn. We arrested him.”
Hodge continued to stare at her. Finally, he nodded.
“Last Friday, this woman was found dead at Techwood Homes. Jane Delray. It was reported as a suicide, but the coroner told me that she was strangled, then thrown from the building.”
Hodge was still looking at her. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not.” Even as Amanda said the words, she questioned herself. Was she certain that the victim was not Lucy Bennett? How was it possible to tell whether or not the corpse at the morgue was truly Jane Delray? Hank Bennett had been equally as certain that he was identifying his sister. But the face, the track marks, the scars on her wrists.
Amanda said, “The victim was not Lucy Bennett. It was Jane Delray.”
Her words floated up into the stale air. Amanda fought the urge to equivocate. This was the hardest lesson they had learned at the academy. It was a woman’s nature to be diminutive, to make peace. They’d spent hours raising their voices, giving orders rather than making requests.
Hodge steepled his fingers. “What’s your next step?”
She let some of the breath out of her lungs. “I’m meeting Evelyn Mitchell at the Union Mission. All the streetwalkers end up there eventually. It’s like their Mexico.” Hodge’s brow furrowed at the analogy. Amanda kept talking. “There has to be someone at the Union Mission who knew the girls.”
He kept studying her. “Did I mishear a plural?”
Amanda bit her lip. She longed for Evelyn’s presence. She was so much better at this. Still, Amanda couldn’t give up now. “The man you spoke to last Monday. The lawyer in the blue suit. His name is Hank Bennett. You thought he was sent by Andrew Treadwell.” Hodge didn’t disagree, so she continued. “I imagine he was here looking for his sister, Lucy Bennett.”
Hodge supplied, “And then, less than a week later, he found her.”
His statement hung between them. Amanda tried to analyze its meaning, but then a more pressing issue presented itself. Rick Landry barreled into the office. He reeked of whiskey. He threw his cigarette on the floor. “Tell this fucking broad to keep her nose out of my case.”
If Hodge was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he asked in a perfectly reasonable voice, “And you are?”
Landry was visibly taken aback. “Rick Landry. Homicide.” He glared at Hodge. “Where’s Hoyt?”
“I imagine Sergeant Woody is drinking his breakfast downtown.”
Again, Landry was taken off guard. It was commonly held on the force that a man’s drinking problem was his own business. “This is a homicide case. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with her. Or that mouthy bitch she’s been hangin’ around with.”
“Homicide?” Hodge paused just a moment longer than necessary. “I was under the impression that Miss Bennett committed suicide.” He pushed through the paperwork on his desk, taking his time finding what he was looking for. “Yes, here’s your preliminary report. Suicide.” He held out the paper. “Is that your signature, Officer?”
“Detective.” Landry snatched the report out of his hand. “It’s what you said, preliminary.” He wadded the paper into a ball and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll give you the final report later.”
“So, the case is still open? You believe Lucy Bennett was murdered?”
Landry glanced back at Amanda. “I need more time.”
“Take all the time you need, Detective.” Hodge held out his hands as if he was placing the world at Landry’s feet. When the man did not leave, he asked, “Is there anything else?”
Landry glowered at Amanda before making his exit. He slammed the door behind him. Hodge looked at the closed door, then back at Amanda.
She asked, “Why did Hank Bennett come here last Monday?”
“That sounds like a very good question.”
“Why did he want you to send us to Kitty’s apartment?”
“Another good question.”
“You didn’t give us a name, just an address.”
“That’s correct.” He picked up his pen. “You can skip roll call.”
Amanda remained seated. She didn’t understand.
“I said you can skip roll call, Miss Wagner.” He went back to his paperwork. When Amanda didn’t leave, he glanced up at her. “Don’t you have a case to work?”
She stood, using the arm of the chair to leverage herself up. The door was stuck. She had to jerk it open. Amanda kept her gaze ahead as she walked through the squad room and out the door. Her resolve almost broke when she was pulling the Plymouth out of the parking lot. She could see the squad through the broken pane of glass in the storefront. A few of the patrolmen watched her leave.
Amanda pulled out onto Highland. Her breathing didn’t return to normal until she was on Ponce de Leon heading toward the Union Mission. By her watch, she had another ten minutes before Evelyn joined her. Maybe Amanda could use the time to figure out what had just happened. The problem was that she didn’t know where to begin. She needed time to digest it all. She also still needed to make a phone call.
The Trust Company branch on the corner of Ponce and Monroe had a bank of pay phones outside the building. Amanda pulled into the parking lot. She backed her car into a space and sat with her hands still wrapped around the wheel. None of this made sense. Why was Hodge speaking in riddles? He didn’t seem to be afraid of much. Was he trying to help Amanda or trying to discourage her?
She found some coins in her wallet and grabbed her address book. Two of the pay phones were out of order. The last one took her dime. She dialed Pam’s number again and listened to the rings. At twenty, she was about to give up, but Pam finally answered.
“Canale.” She sounded even more harried than before.
“Pam, it’s Amanda Wagner.”
A few seconds passed before Pam seemed to recognize her name. “Mandy. What’s going on? Oh, crap, don’t tell me something’s wrong with Mimi?”
Mimi Mitideri, the niece who’d almost run off with a Navy cadet. “No, nothing like that. I was calling to see if you could do me a favor.”
She seemed relieved, though her day was probably filled with people asking for favors. “What do you need?”
“I was wondering if you could look up a name for me, or an apartment.” Amanda realized she wasn’t being very clear. She hadn’t thought through the conversation. “There’s an apartment at Techwood Homes—apartment C. It’s on the fifth floor in the row of buildings—”
“Whoa, let me stop you there. There’s no C at Techwood Homes. They’re numbered.”
Amanda resisted the temptation to ask her where one might find these numbers. “Could you look up a name, then? A Katherine or Kate or Kitty Treadwell?”
“We don’t go by names. We go by roll numbers.”
Amanda sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.” She felt the uselessness of the situation sitting like an elephant on her chest. “I’m not even sure if I’ve got the right name. There are—were—at least three girls living there. Maybe more.”
“Wait a minute,” Pam said. “Are they related?”
“I doubt it. They’re working girls.”
“All in the same unit?” Pam asked. “That’s not allowed unless they’re related. And even if they are, none of those gals ever want to room together. They lie all the time.” There was a noise on Pam’s end of the line. She covered the mouthpiece for a few seconds and had a muffled conversation with another person. When she came back on the line, her voice was clearer. “Tell me about the apartment. You said it was on the top floor?”
“Yes. Fifth floor.”
“Those are one-bedroom units. A single girl wouldn’t get that housin
g assignment unless she has a child.”
“There was no child. Just three women. I’m guessing it was three. Maybe there were more.”
Pam groaned. When she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper. “My supervisor can be persuaded sometimes.”
Amanda was going to ask what she meant, but then it hit her.
Pam sounded bitter. “They should put me in charge. I wouldn’t trade a top-floor apartment for a blow job.”
Amanda gave a shocked laugh—as if such a thing was possible. “Well, thank you, Pam. I know you’ve got work to do.”
“Let me know if you get the unit number. Maybe I can track it back from there. Might take me a week or two, but I’ll do it for you.”
“Thank you,” Amanda repeated. She hung up the phone. Her hand stayed on the receiver. Her mind had been working on other things while she was talking to Pam Canale. It was like looking for your keys. The minute you stopped trying to find them, you remembered where you’d left them.
But there was only one way to be certain.
Amanda put another dime in the slot. She dialed a familiar number. Duke Wagner was never one to let a phone ring more than twice. He picked up almost immediately.
“Hey, Daddy,” Amanda managed, but then she didn’t know what else to say.
Duke sounded alarmed. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”
“No, no,” she told him, wondering why she had called her father in the first place. This was sheer lunacy.
“Mandy? What’s going on? Are you at the hospital?”
Amanda rarely heard her father panicked. Nor had she ever considered the fact that he might be worried about the job she was doing, especially since he was no longer there to protect her.
“Mandy?” She heard a chair slide across the kitchen floor. “Talk to me.”
She swallowed back the uneasy realization that for just a moment, she had enjoyed scaring her father. “I’m fine, Daddy. I just had a question about—” She didn’t know what to call it. “About politics.”
He sounded relieved and slightly irritated. “This couldn’t wait until tonight?”
“No.” She looked out at the street. Cars were backing up at the light. Businessmen were going to work. Women were taking their children to school. “We had a new sergeant last week. One of Reggie’s boys.”