Justice (24 page)

Whitman banged the back of his head against the wall. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m describing them the best I can.”

“Sorry, buddy. It’s not good enough. Get me a name.”

Whitman suddenly straightened his spine. “Free up my hands and give me your pen. I’ll draw them for you.”

Decker looked at him. “You can draw them from memory?”

“In a snap.”

Decker thought a moment, then knocked for the jailer. Ramirez opened the door. “Had enough, Sergeant?”

“Not yet. Cuff him in front for me. I want him to be able to write something.”

Ramirez grudgingly did as requested. After the jailer left and Whitman was immobilized, Decker slid his pen and pad over to the teenager.

“Don’t shit around with me,” Decker said.

“Pissing you off is the last thing on my mind.” Whitman sat, legs bent at the knees, feet on the ground. He placed Decker’s pad on his legs, using his thighs for an easel. He picked up the pen and began to make strokes. “God, I can’t believe I’m
doing
this. I didn’t even bust her cherry.”

Decker said, “So why are you doing it?”

“’Cause I’m crazy.” Whitman studied the drawing and spoke in a mock Viennese accent. “Ker-razy in de head.” He sketched furiously, then flipped the paper. “One down, three to go.”

“You’re fast.”

“I’ve got a good eye.”

Decker said, “A good eye like that. Yet you can’t remember seeing anyone when you left the Grenada West End.”

“It was like three-thirty in the morning, Decker. The lobby wasn’t teeming with bodies.” Whitman paused. “You know, I did see the night clerk when I left. But he didn’t see me.”

“Go on.”

“There’s nothing else to tell.” Whitman turned to a fresh page. “Two down. I saw him at a distance. He was in the back room.”

“You said you’ve got a good eye. Would you recognize the clerk if you saw him again?”

“I
knew
the clerk,” Whitman said. “One of Cheryl’s numbers. Henry Trupp.”

Decker said, “What do you mean, one of Cheryl’s numbers?”

“She had an adult fan club, if you know what I mean. She didn’t exactly hook…more like bartered for favors…a certain male teacher who gave her As when she deserved Fs…the car mechanic…the Korean papa for groceries. A cop when she got busted for drugs—”

“A cop?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Who?”

“Never mentioned a name.”

Decker had heard that one before. Seems like every hooker in the world boasted a cop in her pocket. Rarely did it pan out. “Did Cheryl have an honesty problem?”

“Yeah, she lied a lot. But I know she did Trupp when she needed a place to crash…whenever she ran away from her alcoholic mother…which was often. We were all comped rooms prom night because Cheryl visited Trupp the day before.”

“You told me you and Cheryl never talked.”

“
She
talked. Sometimes I even listened.”

“What does Trupp look like?”

Whitman paused. “You never grilled the guy?”

Trupp still hadn’t been located. But Decker couldn’t tell Whitman that. So he said nothing.

Whitman raised his brow. “Middle-aged, bald white guy with a paunch. You want me to draw him, too?”

White
guy. Decker said, “Sure, draw him for me. Could you see what Trupp was doing in the back room?”

“Watching TV…teevees actually. Guy had two, three sets going at the same time.”

“Could you see what was playing? Get a time frame for yourself?”

“I wasn’t paying attention. I just wanted to go home and start a new day.” Another flip. “Three down. You’re gonna be amazed by how good I am at rendering.”

“I saw your sketches of Terry.”

“Those were garbage,” Whitman announced. “I couldn’t get her right. Too beautiful to capture on paper. How’d the interview go with her?”

Decker was silent.

“Ah, the inscrutable detective.” Whitman grinned, then turned serious. “She hates me, doesn’t she?”

Decker remained quiet.

Whitman looked miserable. “I’m writing brief descriptions at the top. You
are
going to check this out?”

“No promises, no guarantees.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Whitman said. “I’m finished with the whores. I’ll give you Trupp now.” He sketched a few moments. “Too bad I’m so messed, because I got so much raw talent.”

“The world bleeds heavily, Chris.”

Whitman sighed, drew a few moments more, then closed the pad. He slid it and the pen back to Decker. “Take a look.”

Decker picked up his pad and nodded.

Whitman said, “The blacks worked Sunset. Pearl and the other one—the white girl who called herself Luscious—worked Sepulveda. You may want to check them out first because they’re closer.”

“I told you, Chris. No promises, no guarantees.”

Whitman said, “You’re going to check it out. Not because of me, and not because of Terry, but because I
know
you’ll do it. You’re just like me.”

“Son, I’m
nothing
like you.”

“Yeah, you are. You don’t like loose ends.” Whitman pointed to the pad. “You know what those are, Decker? Those are loose ends.”

The bail was set
at a half million on a 10 percent bond. A fifty-thousand-dollar check graced by Moody’s sweeping signature, and an hour later, Whitman was a free bird. Daddy Donatti had come through with the requisite pocket change. Decker passed it off with a shrug. Onward and upward.

Sepulveda Boulevard had never been known for designer architecture. But the shift from basic thoroughfare to hookers’ row had been sudden. A ballooning population in the San Fernando Valley required lots of new goods and services. Sepulveda was well trafficked and had several rows of cheap motels. The ladies were pragmatic. Why travel to Sunset when there were accommodations in the backyard?

The girls came out at twilight. Armed with Whitman’s sketches, Decker began his hunt. He was a cop and made no attempt to hide it, so the girls made him in an eye blink. But his profession didn’t stop their strutting. A UN’s worth of trollops boogied over to him, all of them way too young for their work, way too old for their years. Within minutes, he was surrounded by two Asians, four blacks, and four whites. The guys who had been cruising the boulevard must have thought Decker some awesome stud.

He showed them Whitman’s drawings. The girls giggled and shook their heads no. Some seemed more truth
ful than others. Decker studied them, one face at a time, his attention slowly shifting to an Asian girl. He shooed the others away and took her aside. Maybe she was eighteen, but probably not. Her ID told Decker her name was Mae. He showed her one of Whitman’s sketches. Then he looked her square in the eye.

“Her name is Pearl,” Decker said. “Where can I find her?”

Mae cracked gum. “What’d she do?”

Broad Brooklyn accent. Decker said, “She didn’t do anything.”

“So den why should I help you?”

“I can make it worth your while.”

“Whatchu have in mind?”

Decker peeled off a twenty and flicked it in front of her face.

“Dat’s it?”

“Mae, let’s get along, okay?”

The girl shrugged and snapped up the bill. “Her name’s Tachako Yamaguchi. She’s Japanese. I saw her go into the Royal Crown Motel ’bout twenty minutes ago with some ugly, pumped-up dude. Now how about a tip for being so nice?”

Decker palmed her another ten. “Get out of here.”

She took off. The motel was a block away. Decker started walking. As luck would have it, he hit upon the entrance right as some ugly, pumped-up dude with a small Asian girl stepped outside. Decker grabbed the girl’s arm and told the dude to disappear. He saluted, backed away, then turned and ran.

She was very small and thin except for enormous breasts as big and round as cantaloupes. Dark protruding nipples were visible under a cotton gauze tank top.

Whitman was right. Girl had implants.

She wore crimson latex short shorts, black backless high heels, and her nails were dragon red inset with rhinestones. Through the layers of foundation, blush, lipstick, and eye goop, Decker could make out a pretty
face. Her ID said her name was in fact Tachako Yamaguchi. According to the DMV, she was nineteen. According to Decker, she was a child. Hoping to expedite things, he slipped her a ten, then dropped her arm. She remained rooted to the spot, looked at Decker with expectant eyes. A good sign. Maybe he wouldn’t have to work too hard.

He fished in his pockets and pulled out mug shots of Whitman that were taken at his booking. “You know this guy?”

Tachako’s eyes went from Decker’s face to the sketch. “What’d he do?”

“Just tell me about him.”

She tapped her foot and shrugged. “Quiet. He paid well.”

“How’d his taste run?”

“Nothing I’ve never done before.”

Decker pulled out four fives and showed them to her. He gave her one. “Talk to me, Tachako.”

Her eyes went to the ground. “Blow-jobs.”

Decker frowned. “That’s it? Blow-jobs?”

She waited.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Decker said. “You’ve got to work for the money, even with me.”

“Head with him was enough.” Tachako studied her nails. A rhinestone winked in the moonlight. “Did him two separate times. Third time I saw him coming, I ducked in the alley. Enough’s enough, you know.”

“What’s
enough
, Tachako?”

“He was real big. Liked to use it all.”

Her eyes were uneasy. There was more. Decker gave her another five.

She said, “He liked me on my back. Liked to kneel over me and do it.”

“Straddle you?”

She nodded. “Just picked up my head and shoved it in. Second time, he did it so hard and deep, I had a sore throat for a week. I kept gagging and gagging. Didn’t
stop him. Kept going till he came. After, he gave me double my usual. But who needs it, you know? Plenty of others not so big.”

Her eyes flitted from spot to spot. Decker gave her a third fin. Tachako buffed her nails on her latex hotpants. “He was into control. Bondage.”

“He tied you up?”

She nodded.

“Just the hands?”

She shook her head.

“Hands and feet?”

She nodded.

“Gags?”

“Be hard to suck him if I was wearing a gag.”

Decker laughed and so did she. He said, “You do a lot of regular bondage?”

“No.”

“So why’d you do it with him?”

“Like I said, he paid well.” She flicked imaginary dirt off her sweater. “And he was cute.”

“He ever knock you around?”

“No. He just liked bondage.” She paused. “I think he used old ties.”

Decker pulled out his notebook. “He tied you up with neckties?”

She nodded.

“Tight?”

“Not tight enough to kill, but tight enough.”

“Would you be willing to testify to a grand jury that he tied you up with neckties?”

“You crazy? He’d kill me.”

“He gave me your name, Tachako. He drew me your picture. Want to see it?”

The girl was quiet. Decker took out the sketch and showed it to her. Her eyes widened. “Why’s he drawing me?”

“So I could find you. He drew me a few others as well. You know any of these girls?”

He gave her Whitman’s drawings. Tachako sorted through them one at a time, then she shook her head. “Is he like one of these like whacko…serious killers? Am I on some kinda hit list?”

Decker said, “Tachako, he drew you so
I
could find you. He wanted you to tell me just what you told me.”

She took a baby step backward. “Why’d he want that?”

“He’s being held for murder. If you tell a grand jury about your bondage, we may not need evidence we have to indict him. He doesn’t want us using that evidence. He’s trying to protect someone.”

“He wants
me
to mess him up so’s he can protect another girl?”

Decker nodded.

“I don’t believe you. That kind of guy don’t do
nothing
for other people, even girls they say they love.”

“Tachako, I’m telling you the truth. You testify against him, you’ll make him very happy.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine. Don’t believe me. If I can’t convince you, maybe Whitman can. He’s out on bail. I know he’ll be looking for you.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Wha…what do you want from me?”

“How about an official statement?”

Davidson read the two sworn affidavits and said, “Where the hell did these come from?”

Decker said, “The names of the girls are on the bottom—”

“That’s not what I meant, Decker. How’d you find these girls?”

“From Whitman.”

The lieutenant jerked his head back. “What?”

“Whitman gave me the names of the hookers.”

Davidson paused. “You’re telling me the guy is deliberately screwing himself?”

“He wants a deal.”

“A deal? What kind of deal? Solicitation instead of Murder One?”

“He wants to suppress the McLaughlin sketches—”

Davidson burst into laughter. “He
can’t
be serious.”

“He’s very serious.”

“Then he’s not only dangerous, he’s delusional. State won’t deal with him. The shit’s got nothing to trade.”

Decker paused. “McLaughlin’s a nice girl. Why put her through an ordeal if we have other evidence to convict him?”

The Loo glared at him. “What the fuck happened to you? You didn’t promise him or her anything, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“You know, Decker, even if I was psychotic and agreed to the
possibility
of a deal, State would never take hookers’ testimony in exchange for those sketches we found at his apartment. We need those drawings to make a definite case.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. “I know.”

Davidson grinned. “You sly bastard.” He hit Decker’s arm in camaraderie. “You weren’t really thinking exchange. You were just trying to squeeze him, weren’t you?”

Decker paused. “I was just trying to see what I could do. Like I said, McLaughlin’s a nice girl.”

“Not that nice.”

“She made a mistake. So have I.”

Davidson said, “I’ve lived with my mistakes, let her live with hers. At least you should be convinced the fucker’s guilty.”

“Loo, I can’t help but ask why this piece of shit is screwing himself up to protect this girl.”

“He knows he did it,” Davidson said. “He knows he’s going down for it. He knows he’s fucked. You said
he liked this girl. Maybe he don’t want to take her down with him.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Davidson gave Decker back the hookers’ sworn statements. “Give those to the State. More evidence against Whitman, the better. From your perspective, Diggs is done, you can move on.”

Decker said, “I’d like to check out a few more things—”

“Waste of time. Let it go, Sergeant. If you don’t, you’re gonna screw yourself.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Not ominous.” Tug raised his head and gave him a mean smile. “Just a friendly word of advice.”