Strip Search (12 page)

“Hello, Doc.”

“Jesus Christ, it is you! Hey, man, I couldn’t believe it when the ginch said it was you. Hey, you back in Narcs, baby? It ain’t been the same!”

“No, I’m still in Homicide. But maybe we can do a little business.”

“Old times—I love ‘em! Listen, I read about you and them, what was it, killer angels? I hope to hell you ain’t got nothing like that going down.”

“Avenging angels. No—this is something different. It’s the killings on the strip. I want to know if they’re tied to dopers or a pimp war or something like that.”

“Oh, yeah—the two dancers. I read about them.” The line was quiet for a breath or two. “I ain’t heard of any pimp war going on. They don’t like to kill off the merchandise anyway. They’ll cut them where it don’t show, but they don’t like to kill them.” Another breath. “Dope, huh?”

“It’s a possibility, Doc.”

“Yeah, it is. And if it is, it could be heavy. I mean, with two shootings, somebody must have a lot invested.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Yeah, well, you always did—that ain’t what worries me.” In the past, Doc had proven reliable because he seldom promised more than he could deliver. But he always thought that what he did deliver was important enough to rival the Second Coming, and he figured that the importance of his information made him an equally important target. “Homicide’s a tough rap. People don’t talk much about it unless they’re, you know, new in the business. Then they can’t keep their mouths shut and you don’t need me, you follow?”

“Nobody’s talking on these, Doc.”

“That’s my drift. That means the guy ain’t new at it. But I’d be new in those strip joints—somebody asking questions on new turf, he stands out.”

“I need you, Doc. Really.”

“Aw, yeah! Well, it never was just the money with us, right?”

“Right.” Doc did it for love. Just like a whore.

“Okay—I’ll keep an ear out. I don’t like it, and I can’t promise nothing—it’s not my usual line of contacts. But give me a few days.”

“Thanks, Doc. I mean that.”

“Like old times! Gabe—I love it.”

There were a few other cryptic names and numbers penned in the back of his little green notebook; in the cold gleam of the telephone hood, he scanned the list of CIs left over from his days on the Narc squad of the Organized Crime Unit. One was dead and he crossed out that name. Another had been sent to prison. Wager had been meaning to visit him—someday he’d be out and be valuable again, and a prisoner always had a message or favor that someone on the outside could do for him. He tried another number, but a recording said it had been disconnected. That was a problem with Homicide: the cases very seldom involved what Axton called a subcommunity—not like the dope world or organized crime. So the tendency was to let the lesser names in your stable go unattended, and, like any other bunch of animals, they strayed. Now Wager was in need of them, and it was his own damned fault if they weren’t around.

He dropped another couple dimes into the greasy metal slot and tried still another number. It turned out to belong to a person who had never heard of Lumpy Gallegos and who was very pissed to be woken up at ten-thirty at night by some goddamned drunk. Wager hung up and crossed off that number, too.

He had not tried the distaff side, mainly because he had no distaffs to lean on. But it never hurt to meet new and interesting people, provided you had a little leverage to make things go smoothly. He gathered up his unspent dimes and headed the Trans Am toward Colfax.

She was back again, the white of her plastic purse and the glow of her pink miniskirt competing with the other bright colors crowding the sidewalk. Wager cruised past once and slowed, catching her eye. He turned right and circled the block, pulling into the curb lane as she watched the car approach and ease to a stop.

His arm was on the steering wheel and his face half-hidden behind it. “Hop in, Mama—let’s go for a ride.”

She glanced into the backseat, found it empty, then opened the door. “Sure, honey. I been waiting for you.” Getting in quickly, she told him, “Go around the block, honey, and let’s talk business first.”

Wager pulled away. “You’re looking good, LaBelle.”

He felt her squint toward him with sudden suspicion. The faint tang of marijuana puffed out of her clothes. “You know me? Who are you?”

“I’m a cop, LaBelle.”

“Shit—lemme out. Right now, goddamn you!”

“Relax, baby. If I was looking to bust you, I’d give you the money before I gave you the word.”

“Yeah? Now you want to shake me for a free sample? Stop over there in the light, pig, I want to see who you are.”

He kept driving; she wouldn’t jump from a moving car. “I’ll tell you who I am: Gabe Wager.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“I put you away for three-to-five, LaBelle.”

“You fucking greaser son of a fucking bitch.”

“That’s right, LaBelle—no hard feelings.” From the corner of his eye he saw her gather herself for an attack. “But before you get busted for assaulting an officer, I got a deal for you.”

“What kind of deal? I don’t deal with pigs. You know that.”

“Everybody knows that. Which is why I want to talk with you.”

“You tried it before—it didn’t work, piggy.”

“And I respect you for it.”

“Shit.”

“Really, LaBelle. I asked you to fink on your friends, and you didn’t do it. I respect that. But this is something different—you don’t know the people, and it could be worth some real money to you.”

“I know you. That’s enough. You stop this thing and you let me out.”

“I don’t look for dopers now, LaBelle. I’m in Homicide.”

“I ain’t killed nobody. Not yet.”

“Somebody’s killing girls along the strip.”

“What somebody?”

“That’s part of the deal.”

She looked at him and then out the window. Her hands began rustling in her purse and, under Wager’s quick glance, came up with a handmade cigarette and lit it. The sharp odor drifted through the car and she watched for his reaction. “This here’s an illegal substance, piggy. You want a hit?”

“I never smoke anything, LaBelle.”

“You just blow smoke, that’s all.”

“I’m after a guy who blows off the backs of girls’ skulls. Girls that work the strip.”

“What’s their names?”

He told her.

“I don’t know them. They don’t mean shit to me.”

“You know the Cinnamon Club and Foxy Dick’s.”

“That who it is? Them amateurs? They can waste all of them, as far as I’m concerned.” She drew deeply on the joint and held the smoke down a long time. “Cheap-assed amateurs, hustling johns!”

“I don’t think either one of them was in the life. But I’d like to know for sure.”

“That’s what you want? Me to find out if they was hustling?”

“That, and anything else you can pick up about them or their clubs. Who they were seen with. Any deals they might have going. Anybody working out of the clubs in a regular way. Anything at all.”

“Well, that’s real sweet. What’s in it for me?”

“Depends on what you get. I can go as high as a thousand if it gets me the right people.”

“You want to make me a state employee, is that it?”

The money came out of his own pocket. Doyle had to authorize in advance any funds paid to informants, and Wager knew that none of this would be approved. But he didn’t have much to spend it on anyway—certainly nothing that would bring him as much satisfaction as nailing a killer. “You don’t get any retirement benefits, but it’s tax-free.”

She grinned, a sight verging on the ugly. “So I can still get my food stamps, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll think it over.” Pointing, she said, “Let me out over there where it’s dark and I’ll walk back. I don’t want to be seen getting out of no Spickmobile.”

T
HE NEXT HOMICIDE
victim on the strip was a male, and there was no indication that the murders were related. Wager and Axton had rotated to the day shift—eight-to-four—and now most of their time was spent in court, or following leads that the other shifts couldn’t trace when offices and shops were closed, or finishing up the paperwork on bookings. If the team concept had any benefit, it was in areas like that; but, Wager knew, they had always covered for each other anyway, and had done so without having given up authority over their own cases.

Axton leafed quickly through the file left by Ross and Devereaux before he headed for the City-County Building and its long, echoing corridors of marble slabs and frosted glass doors. “Looks like a get-even hit,” he said. “But give me a call if you need me—I’m in Wolford’s court today.” He handed Wager the file.

“Good luck,” said Wager. Max would need it. Wolford was one of those judges whose sense of legal majesty outweighed his sense of the law. He liked an audience and insisted that every officer involved in a case be present throughout the entire hearing, whether the officer’s role was material or not. Wager had tried to get Bulldog Doyle to run one of his time studies on the manpower wasted sitting in front of the pompous Wolford, but the division chief had only shoved out those lower teeth a little farther and said he knew damned well how much time was lost in that courtroom and it wasn’t Wager’s business to worry about it.

It was his business to worry about homicides, and Wager opened the manila folder of this, the latest, of the city’s violent deaths. He warmed up his coffee and read of the killing of one Richard Goddard. Identified by his fingerprints and a slender information jacket in the police files, he had been found burned, carved on, and beaten to death late the preceding afternoon. The official crime report and the medical report were accompanied by unofficial notes that were far more interesting—speculations and street rumors picked up by the investigators. These indicated that the killing was a revenge slaying, which, of course, pointed toward the victim’s good buddies and friendly associates, several of whom were listed on the contact cards in Goddard’s jacket. That dossier also listed half-a-dozen contacts by Narcotics officers and two arrests for possession with intent. But no further action—no arraignments, no trials, no convictions. It was a pattern inferring that someone had used the arrests to turn Goddard into an informant, and Wager telephoned the man who might know.

“Sergeant Politzky, Vice and Narcotics.”

“Hello, Ski—Wager in Homicide. We have the remains of one Richard Goddard. Was he somebody’s snitch over there?”

“Goddard … I can’t place him. Let me ask around.” He couldn’t resist adding, “He won’t be going anywhere, right?”

Politzky watched a lot of sitcoms on TV. It was one of the hazards of talking with the man. “He’ll stay put, Ski.”

“If he doesn’t, I want to know what vitamins he uses—ha!”

“Just call me if you get anything, Ski.” He hung up as the man was asking what Wager wanted him to call him. Spreading the papers across his desk, he read through a statement by Goddard’s parents taken early this morning by Devereaux and Ross. Several names they mentioned as friends of their son also appeared on the contact cards. Some of those were marked as having jackets of their own down in Records, and—given the probabilities—those were the people to start with. Ross and Devereaux had gotten as far as listing the addresses of the most promising before going off duty this morning. With Max in court, the legwork was left to Wager, and he drained his coffee and got going.

Judging from their record of arrests and rumors, two names looked good: James, AKA Jimmy, King; and Charles, AKA Lizard, Plummer. Plummer was still on parole; his address would be current. Wager started with him.

The man who answered the apartment door tried to pretend that Wager wasn’t a cop. “I don’t want to buy nothing.”

He had his badge case in hand. “Police. Are you Charles Plummer?”

He had high cheekbones and tiny black eyes in puffy, wrinkled lids that accounted for his nickname. His black hair, brushed back and slicked over to hide a balding spot on his crown, ran far down his neck and ended in a little shaggy fringe that curled up in what used to be called a duck’s ass. “I’m him. What do you want?” When he spoke, his lips scarcely opened, and his voice verged on a husky, private whisper.

“I want to know about Richard Goddard. Do you want to talk here in the hall, down at headquarters, or inside your apartment?”

Plummer blinked once or twice, then stepped aside and held open the door. “Come in.” He closed the door behind him. “You with Homicide?”

“That’s right. Detective Wager.”

The man lit a cigarette and wagged the match out; a little swirl of smoke hung in the air for a moment and caught the light in a pearly question mark. “I heard of you. People say you’re a hard-ass.”

“I’m one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, Lizard. Warm and affectionate. Do you have an alibi for yesterday morning?”

“That’s when Rick bought it?”

“More or less. The fun and games lasted awhile.”

He sucked on the cigarette and cupped the butt under his palm, prison style. “I read about it this morning. Too bad.” He drew again. “I was here. Home.” His glance went around the box of a room. In an alcove, a small refrigerator was tucked under a hot plate. The cold-water sink served both people and dishes.

“Anybody see you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The mailman, maybe. I sleep late. I get off work between eleven and midnight and sleep late.”

“What do you do for a living, Lizard?”

“I’m a dishwasher. Holiday Inn.” For the first time since answering the door, he looked straight at Wager. “I don’t have nothing to do with it. I swear.”

“You did some time for dealing. We figure Ricky either ripped somebody off or was nailed for a snitch. And you’re a known associate.”

“I’m clean. I did my time and I been clean since.”

“You’re still on parole, Lizard. It doesn’t take a trial to put you back in the can for consorting with a known felon.”

“Hey, I didn’t know Goddard was a felon. He never said nothing to me about being busted.”

“He’s got a jacket. That’s a public record.”

“Man, all we did was drink beer and talk! I always have a few beers after work and I’d run into him now and then. And that’s all it was: talk!”