Criminal (9 page)

“Okay, what’ve we got?” Evelyn asked no one in particular. “Four hundred forty-three rapes reported last year.” Her voice clattered down the stairs like a bell. “One hundred thirteen were white women. What is that, a one-in-four chance of us being raped?” She looked back at Amanda. “Twenty-five percent?”

Amanda shook her head. The woman might as well be speaking in tongues.

Evelyn continued up the stairs. “Four times one hundred thirteen …” Her voice trailed off. “I was almost right. We have a twenty-six percent chance of being raped today. That’s not high at all. That’s a seventy-four percent chance of nothing happening.”

The numbers, at least, made sense. Amanda felt an ounce of pressure lift off her chest. “That doesn’t seem so bad.”

“No, it doesn’t. If I had a seventy-four percent chance of winning the Bug, I’d be down on Auburn right now betting my paycheck.”

Amanda nodded. The Bug was a numbers game run out of Colored Town. “Where did you—”

There was a commotion down the hallway. A door slammed. A child screamed. A man’s voice shouted for everyone to shut the hell up.

The pressure came back like a boulder dropping from the sky.

Evelyn had stopped on the stairs. She was looking directly down at Amanda. “Statistically, we’re fine. More than fine.” She waited for Amanda to nod before continuing the climb. Evelyn’s posture had lost its certainty. She was breathing heavily. Suddenly, Amanda realized that the other woman had taken the lead. If there was something bad waiting for them at the top of the stairs, Evelyn Mitchell would meet it first.

Amanda asked, “Where did you get those numbers?” She’d never heard them before and frankly did not care. All she knew was that talking was the only thing keeping her from vomiting. “The reported rapes?”

“Class project. I’m taking statistics at Tech.”

“Tech,” Amanda repeated. “Isn’t that hard?”

“It’s a great way to meet men.”

Again, Amanda didn’t know if she was joking. Again, she didn’t care. “How many of the perpetrators were white?”

“What’s that?”

“Techwood is ninety percent black. How many of the rapists were—”

“Oh, right, right.” Evelyn stopped at the top of the stairs. “You know, I can’t recall. I’ll look it up for you later. This is it.” She pointed down the hallway. All the lights were blown out. The skylight cast everything in shadow. “Fourth door on the left.”

“Do you want my Kel?”

“I don’t think a light will make much difference. Ready?”

Amanda felt her throat work as she tried to swallow. There was an apple core on the floor that seemed to be moving. It was completely covered in ants.

Evelyn said, “Smell’s not so bad up here.”

“No,” Amanda agreed.

“I suppose if you’re going to relieve your bladder on the floor, you need not climb five flights of stairs to do it.”

“No,” Amanda repeated.

“Shall we?” Evelyn walked down the hall with renewed purpose. Amanda caught up with her in front of the closed door. A plastic cutout of the letter
C
was nailed to the wall. Taped just below the spyhole was a strip of notebook paper with blue capital letters written in a child’s hand.

Amanda read, “Kitty Treadwell.”

“The plot thickens.” Evelyn took a deep breath through her nose. “You smell that?”

Amanda had to concentrate in order to discern the new odor. “Vinegar?”

“That’s what heroin smells like.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve tried that, too?”

“Only my hairdresser knows for sure.” She motioned for Amanda to stand to the side of the door. Evelyn took the opposite side. This marginally ensured their safety in case someone was standing behind the door with a loaded shotgun.

Evelyn raised her hand and knocked on the door with such force that the wood shook on its hinges. Her voice was entirely different—deeper, more masculine—when she shouted, “Atlanta Police Department!” She saw Amanda’s expression and gave her a wink before banging again. “Open up!” she ordered.

Amanda listened to her own heartbeat, the quick gulps of breath. Seconds passed. Evelyn raised her hand again, then dropped it when a muffled woman’s voice said, “Jesus,” from behind the door.

There was a shuffling noise inside the apartment. A chain slid back. Then a lock turned. Then another lock. Then the handle moved as the thumb latch was toggled.

The girl inside was obviously a prostitute, though she was dressed in a thin cotton shift that was more appropriate for a ten-year-old girl. Bleach blonde hair hung to her waist. Her skin was so white it bordered on blue. Her age was between twenty and sixty. Track marks riddled her body—her arms, her neck, her legs, pricking open like wet, red mouths on the veins of her bare feet. Missing teeth gave her face a concave appearance. Amanda could see how the ball-and-socket joint in her shoulder worked as she folded her arms low on her waist.

Evelyn asked, “Kitty Treadwell?”

Her voice had a smoker’s rasp. “Whatchu bitches want?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Evelyn breezed into the apartment, which looked just as Amanda expected. Molded dishes filled the sink. Empty fast-food bags were everywhere. Clothes were strewn across the floor. There was a stained blue couch in the middle of the room with a coffee table in front. Syringes and a spoon rested on a dingy washrag. Matches. Pieces of cigarette filters. A small bag of dirty white powder was laid out beside two cockroaches that were either dead or so high they couldn’t move. Someone had pulled the kitchen stove into the middle of the room. The oven door was open, the edge resting on the coffee table to support the large color television set on top.

“Is that Dinah?” Evelyn asked. She turned up the volume. Jack Cassidy was singing with Dinah Shore. “I just love her voice. Did you see David Bowie on here last week?”

The girl blinked several times.

Amanda checked for roaches before turning on the floor lamp. A harsh light filled the room. The windows were covered in yellow construction paper, but that only served to filter the bright morning sun. Perhaps that was why Amanda felt safer inside the apartment than she had in the stairwell. Her heartbeat was returning to normal. She wasn’t sweating any more than dictated by the temperature.

“David Bowie,” Evelyn repeated, turning off the TV. “He was on
Dinah
last week.”

Amanda stated the obvious. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” A heavy sigh came from deep inside her chest. They had risked their lives for this?

Evelyn patted the girl on the cheek. Her palm made a firm slapping sound against the skin. “You in there, sweetheart?”

“I’d soak that hand in Clorox,” Amanda advised. “Let’s get out of here. If this girl was raped, she probably deserved it.”

“Hodge sent us here for a reason.”

“He sent you and Vanessa here,” Amanda countered. “I can’t believe we’ve wasted our whole morning—”

“Fonzie,” the girl mumbled. “He wa’ talkin’ to Fonzie.”

“That’s right,” Evelyn said, smiling at Amanda as if she’d won a prize. “Bowie was on
Dinah
last week with Fonzie from
Happy Days
.”

“I seen ’em.” Kitty ambled over to the couch and collapsed onto the cushions. Amanda didn’t know if it was the drugs or her circumstances that made the girl’s speech almost unintelligible. She sounded as if someone had turned upside down the entire Flannery O’Connor canon and shaken her out. “I don’member what’e sang.”

“You know, I don’t either.” Evelyn motioned for Amanda to check the rest of the place.

Amanda asked, “What am I looking for, back editions of
Good Housekeeping
?”

Evelyn smiled sweetly. “Wouldn’t that be funny if you actually found some?”

“Just hilarious.”

Reluctantly, Amanda did as she was asked, trying not to let her arms touch the walls of the narrow hallway as she walked to the back. The apartment was larger than her own. There was a proper bedroom separate from the living area. The door to the closet was off its hinges. Several torn black garbage bags seemed to hold the girl’s clothing. The bed was a pile of stained sheets wadded up on the carpet.

Impossibly, the bathroom was even more disgusting than the rest of the apartment. Black mold had replaced the grout in the tile. The sink and toilet were serving double duty as ashtrays. The trashcan was overflowing with used sanitary napkins and toilet paper. The floor was smeared with something Amanda didn’t want to know about.

Taking up every available surface were various personal grooming products, which, to Amanda’s thinking, was the very definition of irony. Two cans of Sunsilk hairspray. Four Breck shampoo bottles at varying levels. A ripped box of Tampax. An empty bottle of Cachet by Prince Matchabelli. Two open pots of Pond’s cold cream, both caked with a yellowed rind. Enough makeup to stock the Revlon counter at Rich’s. Brushes. Pencils. Liquid eyeliner. Mascara. Two combs, both clumped with hair. Three very well used toothbrushes sticking out of a Mayor McCheese drinking glass.

The shower curtain was torn from the hooks, giving the cockroaches in the tub a clear view of Amanda. They stared at her intently as she shuddered uncontrollably. She gripped her purse, knowing she was going to have to shake it out before she even thought about putting it in the car.

Back in the living room, Evelyn had moved on from Arthur Fonzarelli to the reason for their visit. “Andy Treadwell is your cousin or your brother?”

“Uncah,” the girl said, and Amanda assumed she meant the elder Andrew Treadwell. “Wha’ time it is?”

Amanda looked at her watch. “Nine o’clock.” She felt the need to add, “In the morning.”

“Shee-it.” The girl reached down between the couch cushions and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Amanda watched as, entranced, the girl studied the pack of Virginia Slims as if they’d just fallen like manna from heaven. Slowly, she took out a cigarette. It was bent at an angle. Still, she grabbed the matches off the table and with shaking hands lit the cigarette. She blew out a stream of smoke.

“I hear those will kill you,” Evelyn said.

“I’s waitin’,” the girl answered.

Evelyn countered, “There are faster ways.”

“You stick aroun’, you see how fast.”

Amanda detected an edge to the girl’s tone. “Why is that?”

“Them kids done seen ya pull up. My daddy gonna wanna know why two white bitches chattin’ me up.”

Evelyn said, “I think your uncle Andy is worried about you.”

“He want his dick suck again?”

Amanda exchanged a look with Evelyn. Most of these girls claimed an uncle or father had abused them. Around the sex crimes units they called it an Oedipal complex. Not technically correct, but close enough, and obviously a waste of police time.

Kitty said, “You cain’t arrest me. I ain’t did nothin’.”

“We don’t want to arrest you,” Evelyn tried again. “We were told by our sergeant that you’d been raped.”

“S’what I get pay for, ain’it?” She blew out another plume of smoke, this one straight into their faces.

Evelyn’s sunny disposition faltered. “Kitty, we need to speak with you and take a statement.”

“Ain’t ma problem.”

“All right. We’ll just leave then.” Evelyn snatched the bag of heroin off the coffee table and turned on her heel.

If Amanda hadn’t been so surprised to see Evelyn take the drugs, she would’ve been heading toward the door herself. As it was, she saw everything—the shock on the girl’s face, the way she sprang from the couch, fingers out like the claws on a cat.

Seemingly of its own volition, Amanda’s foot rose up. She didn’t trip the girl. She kicked her in the ribs, sending her straight into the stove. The blow was hard. Kitty slammed into the television, breaking off the stove door. The TV cracked against the floor. Tubes popped. Glass shattered.

Evelyn stared at Amanda in visible shock. “What was that?”

“She was about to jump you.”

“You certainly stopped her.” Evelyn knelt down on the floor. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and handed it to the girl.

“Bitches,” Kitty slurred. Her fingers went to her mouth. She pulled out one of her last remaining teeth. “Got damn bitches.”

Evelyn stood back up, probably thinking it wasn’t wise to kneel in front of an angry prostitute. Still, she said, “You need to tell us what’s going on. We’re here to help you.”

“ ’uck you,” the girl mumbled, fingers feeling around inside her mouth. Amanda saw old scars across her wrist where Kitty had tried to slice open the veins. “ ’et the ’uck outta ’ere.”

Evelyn’s voice turned hard. “Don’t make us drag you to the station, Kitty. I don’t care who your uncle is.”

Amanda thought of her car, the time it would take to wash away the grime from the back seat. She told Evelyn, “You can’t seriously be considering—”

“Like hell I’m not.”

“There’s no way I’m letting this—”

“Shut up!” the girl yelled. “I ain’t even Kitty. I’s Jane. Jane Delray.”

“Oh for the love of—” Amanda threw her hands into the air. All the terror she’d experienced on the stairwell turned into anger. “We don’t even have the right girl.”

“Hodge didn’t give a name. Just an address.”

Amanda shook her head. “I don’t know why we even listened to him. He’s been here less than a day. The same as you, I might add.”

“I was in uniform for three years before—”

“Why are you back?” Amanda demanded. “Are you here to do the job or is it something else?”

“You’re the one who wants to hightail it out of here.”

“Because this whore can’t tell us anything.”

“Hey!” Jane screamed. “Who you callin’ a whore?”

Evelyn looked down at the girl. Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “Really, darling? You want to make that argument now?”

Jane wiped the blood from her mouth. “Y’all ain’t from the gubmint.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Evelyn said. “Exactly who from the government is looking for you?”

Her shoulders gave a slight shrug. “I might’a been down to the Five on account’a needin’ s’money.”

Evelyn put her hand to her head. “The Five” referred to the Five Points Station bus line that serviced the welfare office. “You were trying to cash Kitty’s government assistance voucher.”