K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

I steeled myself and pushed through the door. I traveled the length of the bar like a fish swimming upstream, scanning the assembled patrons for Danielle. She'd said she usually started work at eleven, but there was always the chance she'd stop at the bar first to have a drink. There was no sign of her at all, but I did see Berlyn on her way to the dance floor. She was wearing a short black skirt and a red satin top with spaghetti straps. Her hair was slightly too short for the topknot she affected, so that more seemed to hang down than was secured above. Her earrings were big double rhinestone hoops that glittered and bounced against her neck as she moved. At first I thought she was unaccompanied, but then I saw a fellow pushing through the crowd in front of her. The other bobbing dancers closed around her, and she was gone.

I made my way back to the front door and checked the parking lot without luck. I fired up the VW and cruised the neighborhood, pausing at all the street corners where the hookers hung out. Ten more minutes of this shit and I was heading home. Finally I pulled in at the curb, leaned over, and rolled my window down. A rail-thin brunette, wearing a T-shirt, miniskirt, and cowboy boots, separated herself from the wall she was leaning on. She ambled over and opened the door on the passenger side. I could see the puckering of goose bumps on her frail, bare arms.

"You want company?" She was strung out on something, throwing off that odd crackhead body odor. Her eyes kept sliding upward out of focus, like the roll on a TV picture.

"I'm looking for Danielle."

"Well, hon, Danielle's busy, so I'm covering her act. What you want, I can get, and that's an actual fact."

"Did she go home?"

"It's possible that Danielle has gone back to her place. Give me ten dollars more and I'll sit on your face."

I said, "Rhyming. Very nice. Meter's a little off, but otherwise you're Longfellow."

"Baby, don't be strange. You got any change?"

"I'm fresh out," I said.

"I won't pout." She pushed away from the car and sauntered back to her post. I pulled away, hoping I hadn't unleashed a fit of iambic pentameter. It hadn't occurred to me that Danielle might hang out at her place before going to work.

I headed up two blocks and hung a left, turning into the narrow alleyway where Danielle had her digs. I pulled even with the property and peered through the gap in the shrubs, my gaze moving up the brick walk that led to her door. Her curtains had been drawn, but I could see the glow of lights on inside. I really had no idea whether she brought Johns back to her place or not. It was close enough to the Palace to be practical, but there were also a couple of fleabag hotels in the area, and she might have preferred to take her business there. I saw a shadow pass the window, which seemed to suggest she was on her feet. My car engine chuffed noisily, headlights slicing through the dark like blades. I could feel myself vacillate. She might be alone and glad of company. On the other hand, she might be occupied. I really didn't want to see her in a business context.

While I debated, I killed the engine and flicked out my headlights. The alley disappeared in pitch blackness, night insects chirring in the heavy silence. Within a minute my eyes were accustomed to the dark, and the landscape began to reassemble itself in shades of charcoal. I got out of the car and locked it behind me. Maybe I'd knock once. If she was busy, so be it. I felt my way from the alley to the brick walk, holding one hand in front of me lest I stumble over trash cans.

I reached her doorstep and cocked my head, listening for the sound of voices or canned laughter from the television. I gave a tentative knock. From the other side of the door, I heard low moans, sensuous and repetitive. Uh-oh. I remembered the first trailer I'd moved into after the death of my aunt. Coming in late one summer night, I'd heard a pregnant neighbor woman making sounds like that. Ever the good citizen, I'd gone over to her window, where I'd tapped and asked if she needed help. I'd thought she was in labor, realizing too late the process I'd interrupted was the one that made babies, not delivered them.

Behind me, someone moved out of the shadows near the alley and eased through the shrubs. Leisurely footsteps scritched on the pavement and gradually faded. Danielle's moaning was renewed, and I backed up a step. I stared out at the alleyway with puzzlement. Was that her john I'd just seen? I leaned my head against the door. "Danielle?" No response.

I knocked again. Silence.

I tried the knob. The hinges made no sound at all as the door swung inward. At first, all I saw was the blood.

16

The emergency room at St. Terry's was bedlam, a glimpse into purgatory. There had been a six-car accident on the highway, and all of the examining rooms were filled with the injured and dying. In each cubicle, against the hot white cloth of the surrounding screens, I could see a shadow play of medical procedures against a backdrop of supply carts, wall-mounted oxygen, the hanging bags of blood and glucose, X-ray machinery. Once in a while the low hum of activity would be cut by hellish shrieks from the patient on the gurney. On one stretcher, unattended, the victim writhed as if licked by flames, crying, "Mercy… have mercy." An orderly came by and moved him into a newly vacated examining room.