K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"Danielle was well protected?"

"Of course not," he said, exasperated that I was being so dense. "She shoulda listened to me. I told her, 'Don't take guys home.' I told her, 'Don't do a guy without I'm outside the door.' That's my job. This is how I earn my percentage. I drive her when she goes on appointments. No crazy's going to lay a hand on her if she's got an escort, for cripe's sake. She don't call, I can't help. It's as simple as that."

"Maybe it's time she got out of the life," I said.

"That what she's saying, and I go, 'Hey, that's up to you.' No-body forces my girls to stay in. She wants out, that's her business. I'd have to ask how she's going to earn a living…" He let that one trail, his voice tinged with skepticism.

"Meaning what? I'm not following."

"I'm just trying to picture her working in a department store, waitressing, something like that. Minimum-wage-type job. Beat-up like that, it'd be tough, of course, but as long as she don't mind coming down in the world, who am I to object? You got scars on your face, might be a trick to get employment."

"Nobody's said anything about facial scars," I said. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"Oh. Well, I just assumed. Word on the street is she got busted up bad. Naturally, I thought, you know, some unfortunate facial involvement. It's a pity, of course, but a lot of guys try to do that, interfere with a poor girl's ability to make a living, undercut their confidence, and shit like that."

Cheney reappeared, his gaze shifting with curiosity from Lester's face to mine. "Everything okay?"

"Sure, fine," I said tersely.

"We're just talking business," Lester said. "I never did hear how Danielle is. She going to be all right?"

"Time to go," Cheney said to him. "We'll walk you out to your "Hey, sure thing. Where they got her, up in orthopedics? I could send some flowers'f I knew. Someone told me her jaw's broke. Probably some coked-up lunatic."

"Skip the flowers. We're not giving out information. Doctor's orders," Cheney said.

"Pretty smart. I was going to suggest that myself. Keeps her safe from the wrong types."

I said, "Too late for that," but the irony escaped him.

Once we reached the street in front of St. Terry's, we did a parting round of handshakes as though we'd just had a business meeting. The minute Lester's back was turned, I wiped my hand on my jeans. Cheney and I waited on the sidewalk until we saw him drive away.

17

It was close to four in the morning as Cheney's little red Mazda droned through the darkened streets. With the top down, the wind whipped across my face. I leaned my head back and watched the sky race by. On the mountain side of the city, the shadowy foothills were strung with necklaces of streetlights as twinkling as bulbs on a Christmas tree. In the houses we passed, I could see an occasional house light wink on as early morning workers plugged in the coffee and staggered to the shower.

"Too cold for you?"

"This is fine," I said. "Lester seemed to know a lot about Danielle's beating. You think he did it?"

"Not if he wanted her to work," Cheney said.

The sky at that hour is a plain, unbroken gray shading down to the black of trees. Dew saturates the grass. Sometimes you can hear the spritzing of the rainbirds, computers programmed to water lawns before the sun has fully risen. If the cycle of low rainfall persisted as it had in the past, water usage would be restricted and all the lush grass would die. During the last drought, many home owners had been reduced to spraying their yards with dense green paint.

On Cabana Boulevard, a kid on a skateboard careened along the darkened sidewalk. It occurred to me that I'd been waiting to see the Juggler, the man on the bike, with his taillight and pumping feet. He was beginning to represent some capricious force at work, elfin and evil, some figment of my imagination dancing along ahead of me like the answer to a riddle. Wherever I went, he'd eventually appear, always headed somewhere in a hurry, never quite arriving at his destination.

Cheney had slowed, leaning forward to check the skateboarder as we passed him. Cheney raised a hand in greeting, and the kid waved back.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Works night maintenance at a convalescent home. He had his driver's license pulled on a DUI. Actually, he's a good kid," he said. Moments later he turned into Danielle's alley, where my car was still parked. He pulled in behind the VW, shifting into neutral to minimize the rumble of his engine. "How's your day looking? Will you have time to sleep?"