Hiero had drawn a crude North Star compass in the small block and written, “LU thigh, partially obscured.”Kris had a tattoo on her left upper thigh that was only partially visible, even though she wore a short skirt.
In Washington State, it used to be the law that no minor could be tattooed without parental consent.Body piercings and tattoos were rampant among kids today and unscrupulous businesses took advantage of that.
I drank my coffee and shook my head.What had happened to her?
Hiero had let a sixteen-year-old girl stay out on the streets.What was he thinking?On top of that, some maggot tattoo hack had been more than happy to tattoo her upper thigh.
My stomach churned.I pushed the coffee away.
The last piece of paper was a square yellow post-it note.Katie had written, “Check her DOB?” on it.
I flipped back to the computer entry and read Kris’s date of birth.
January 18, 1987.
I checked Hiero’s FI.The same birth date was listed there.
I sat back in my booth seat.
She’d lied.
That was no big surprise, I realized.She had only changed the year of birth by one and had made herself seventeen.Seventeen is a magical age, even for cops.People don’t expect the same level of adult responsibility as an eighteen year old on some things, but on others, we figure it’s close enough.A seventeen year old out at two in the morning is not going to get hauled in, not if there isn’t anything else to hold her on.And based on Hiero’s FI, there wasn’t.Just his suspicions.I’m sure he told her to get lost or he’d arrest her, and she probably believed him and left for the night.He probably didn’t want to get hung up dealing with a juvenile for several hours.Especially not a seventeen year old who was practically an adult.
And Kris Sinderling…well, she had something about her, didn’t she?Something that would say, “Hey Mr. Policeman, I know I’m only seventeen, but I look twenty-three, don’t I?You don’t need to worry about me.I can definitely take care of myself.And maybe take care of you…?”
I forced the image from my mind and slammed the thin file shut.
“You okay, hon?”
Phyllis stood next to my table, a pot of coffee in her hand.Genuine concern was on her face.
I put my hand over the top of my cup.“Fine.”
She shook her head.“I don’t mean the coffee.I mean you.Are you okay?”
I didn’t have an answer for her, so I pulled out two five dollar bills and dropped them on the table.
“You’ll need some change,” Phyllis told me as I slid out of the booth.
“Nope,” I said, folding the file Katie had given me and sliding it into my jacket sleeve.“That’s for you.”
Phyllisgave me an enthusiastic thanks.I nodded that I heard her and left the diner.
21
My knee ached and my head swam.
I trudged west down Sprague Avenue, keeping the pace slow to avoid my limp coming out.I knew it would anyway, long before I got home. I’d pay for the long walk tomorrow, but right now I needed the time and motion.
None of it made any sense to me.Sure, girls ran away.Some got tattoos.Some even became prostitutes.It wasn’t an uncommon story.
But not girls like Kris Sinderling.
So what had happened?
I continued to walk along, my boots clicking on the sidewalk, because I had absolutely no idea.
22
I wished I’d opened the folder and read it when Katie had suggested it.I could’ve asked her questions that would be useful now.
Rolo, for instance.He wasn’t a pimp that I knew, but my information on River City bad guys was a decade old.I didn’t know who the players were when it came to hookers, gambling or dope anymore.I was about as out of touch with the criminal scene in River City as I’d felt when I’d opened up the entertainment section of the newspaper back at Polly’s.
At Sprague and Smith, I stopped and looked around.Regular Joe Citizens zipped by in their Regular Joe cars, on their way to or from legitimate, taxable enterprise of some sort or another.All the while, most of them remained oblivious to the less legitimate, completely untaxed business that transpired right on Sprague Avenue.Two blocks west, I saw a small black kid huddled in the doorway of a paint store that had gone out of business.He was most likely a dealer, or a runner for one.A half block further up, I saw a heavyset white woman in stretch pants and a dark green windbreaker.A true River City hooker.No import, that one.
I paused, struck with an idea.Some of the cash Matt had given me was still in my front pocket.I pulled it out, shielding the bills with one hand and flipping through them with the other.Carefully, I arranged four twenties on the outside of the stack, folded it over and slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
I passed by a dry cleaners, an Army-Navy Surplus store and a restaurant before reaching the deserted paint store.The thin, young black kid sat huddled in the corner of the inset doorway.I briefly considered talking to him, but rejected the thought.He might know things, but he wasn’t likely to tell me anything except where to get some rock cocaine.I ignored him and fixed my eyes on the wide hips up ahead of me.
Even though I wasn’t looking directly at him, his eyes followed me as I walked by.He waited until I was almost completely past before hissing, “Hey, man!”
I looked over in spite of myself, slowing to a near stop.
The kid was in bad shape.His head and shoulders jumped in small, sharp twitches. His toes tapped as if he were listening to music only he could hear.His eyes held ahollow, desperate look.
I should’ve kept walking, I thought.
He struggled to his feet and licked his lips nervously.“Hey, man, you got a cigarette?”
“No,” I told him.“Don’t smoke.”
He gave me a brief nod, then cast his eyes quickly left and right before bringing them back to bear on me.
“Suck it?” he asked, his voice slightly lower.
“What?!”
He stepped toward me with the beginnings of a smile.“Suck your dick, mister?”
I shook my head and moved back, my skin crawling.
“C’mon, man,” he said, casually.“I’ll suck it hard.I’ll suck it good.You’ll blow your wad harder than with any bitch you ever had suck it.”
“No,” I said, holding up my hand.“Not interested.”
“I’m jus’ tryin’ to make a livin’, man,” he said, disappointment creeping into his voice.He took another small step in my direction.
“I don’t care if you’re trying to cure cancer,” I told him.“Stay the fuck away from me.”
He muttered, “Asshole,” and returned to the doorway of the deserted paint store.
23
The woman watched me approach in my slow, ambling gait.My limp really showed and I felt the dull throb in my knee that came with it.Wearing cowboy boots had been a mistake.I could feel the beginnings of at least two blisters on the inside of my foot.
She moved her zipper slowly up and down her windbreaker, exposing a pink bra and bone-white belly flab beneath.She easily weighed over two bills, all packed onto a five-foot-three-inch frame.
A practiced smile broke over her face.“Hi,” she said.Her voice was low and sultry.At least, that’s what I think she was going for.
“Hi,” I said back, and stopped about two feet from her.
Her tongue arched out and touched her upper lip, making me think of her as a super-sized Cher.She didn’t stop with the zipper routine, either.In fact, she left it down longer before zipping it slowly up.
“Dookie not your speed, huh?” she said in a husky voice.
“Dookie?”
She tipped her head in the direction of the black kid.
“Oh,” I said and shook my head.“No, not my thing.”
“Poor Dookie,” she said.“He tries so hard.”
I nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“What’s your name?” she asked.