The Emerald Cat Killer (16 page)

“You remember the name of the vendor?”

He shook his head.

“Did you get a receipt?”

“Yes. You need it to get out of there. They're afraid of shoplifters.”

This time the grin came out, like it or not. Apparently Rigoberto liked it. He grinned back.

“But I didn't save it,” he said.

Marvia sighed. Man, was this police work ever exciting. “Would you recognize the vendor if you saw him again? Or, her, again? Was it a man or a woman, surely you'd remember that.”

“A man.”

“Black, white, Latino?”

“White.”

“Age?”

“Oh, I don't know. I don't remember the dude. How you expect me to remember some dude I met once half a year ago and never saw again no more?”

“You'd be surprised what you can remember. Please try.”

Chocron closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. He dropped his hand and said, “He had gray hair and a ponytail, he was maybe fifty. Heavy guy. Big shoulders, big belly, wore a Space Cadet baseball cap with his ponytail pulled through that, you know”—he gestured with one hand—“you know, that strap thing they use to change the size.”

“He wore a
what?”

“What I told you.”

“What kind of baseball cap?”

“Space Cadet. It had a picture of a rocket ship and a planet on it and it said
SPACE CADET
. And I remember now, there was two of them. What a couple of characters. Mister and Missus Space Cadet. I remember them.”

“Mr. Chocron, would you recognize these people if you saw them again.”

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“If I take you with me to the flea market this Sunday, do you think you could point him out to me?”

“I don't know. I think he was a good dude. Didn't give me no hassle, didn't demand ID or nothing. I don't want to get him in trouble.”

“You won't get him in trouble, really. You've been very helpful. I told you, this works like a chain. Mr. Space Cadet is the next link in the chain.”

Chocron stared at Marvia Plum. She stared back. After a couple of weeks—at least that's what it seemed like—he said, “What's in it for me, Madame Cop?”

“A green card.”

“You know I overstayed my last one.”

“I'm talking about immigrant status, not student.”

“You're a local cop. You don't give out green cards. Who do you think you're kidding,
un granjero simplón
? You understand that? Some simpleton fresh off the farm.”

“You're right, Rigoberto. We don't have green cards to give out, but we have connections with
los federales,
you understand that? Believe me. You'll have a green card in your hand if you help me. Otherwise—I gave you my word I would still not blow the whistle on you, no
migra
problems, but no green card, either.”

“Meet me at Los Arcos
esta Domingo a las diez por la mañana.
And
desayuno
is on you, right?”

Marvia Plum stuck out her hand and Rigoberto Chocron shook it.

*   *   *

The Hortons had an early dinner. They left the dishes on the table. They knew they would be cleared and washed and put away. One advantage of having money was that you didn't have to worry about things like doing the dishes or folding the laundry.

Not that they were the children of privilege and wealth. Joe Horton had built a business from nothing. You don't start from scratch and become wealthy by punching a time clock and going home promptly at quitting time. And Carolyn had been with him every step of the way, holding down menial jobs as a young wife to help fill the family coffers, then staying home to care for their daughter without benefit of day care or babysitters.

Now they had plenty of money, a big house, two new cars.

They had nothing.

Joseph Horton looked at his watch and nodded. It was getting dark out. This time of year, the evenings were short. He said, “I'm going out.”

“Looking?” It was only half a question. Carolyn knew the answer.

“Of course. Want to come along?”

“Yes.” She started from her chair, then let herself slide back into it. “No. I don't think … not tonight. I think I'll just stay home and—I don't know—I think I'll just stay home.”

He said, “All right.”

She said, “Where will you go?”

“I think MacArthur in Oakland. Or maybe down on University. I'll see.”

“All right. Take your cell phone. Call me if you … if you … just call me, please.”

“I will. I promise.”

He started for the side door that would lead to the garage.

She said, “Please, one more thing, a favor.”

“What? A quart of milk? Loaf of bread?”

The joke didn't work.

“Just … don't take the Lexus. It's such a target. You'll get in trouble.”

“Maybe I want to get in trouble.”

“Please, take the hybrid. Nobody sees them, there are so many around here.”

He sighed, stopped at the credenza near the inside garage door and put back the car keys he'd already lifted and dropped in his pocket. He took another set in their place.

She said, “Wear your warm coat. A night like this, it's nasty out.”

“I'll be in the car. It has a great heater.”

“But if you see anything, you might have to get out of the car. Wear your warm coat. Please. What if you get sick? I couldn't—I couldn't.…”

He left, slid down out of the hills, and headed toward MacArthur. The row of motels there were notorious places for hookers to congregate. Johns knew it. They would cruise and eyeball the talent and make a choice. The cheapskates would get service right in their cars. The carriage trade would pull into a motel parking lot and pay for a room as well as for the girl.

Or boy.

ELEVEN

Was it possible?

Joseph Horton had cruised down Broadway Terrace from Berkeley to Oakland, continued on Broadway, and turned right, away from the big Kaiser Hospital on MacArthur. He rolled past the row of motels opposite the darkened Mosswood Park. Hi-Hat, Happy Hour, Uncle Sam, Diamond Crown, American Eagle.

One hot-sheet joint after another.

The Prius wasn't the only car moving slowly past the motels. He had the radio turned on, volume low, some soothing music from KDFC to keep him calm, or at least as calm as he could be on this night. At least the previous night's storm had passed over the Bay Area to drop what remained of its moisture as it rose into the Sierras in the Tahoe Basin and down a few hundred feet into the high desert country of western Nevada. If the storm had lingered, there would have been no parade along MacArthur and no point in Joseph's mission. He might as well have stayed home with Carolyn and endured her nightly bouts of grief and rage, as if what had happened was his fault.

The whores and their pimps were parading on the broad sidewalk in front of the motels. There were enough streetlamps to let them show off their wares, their uniforms of short skirts and high-heel boots, swinging their hips, strutting their stuff in competition for the customers' eyes.

At Manila Avenue he swung right, through a neighborhood of paint and body shops, tire stores, automotive garages as dark at night as the park, and probably as dangerous. Right again on Thirty-Eighth Street and back to Broadway. Past a couple of restaurants and bars, then right again on MacArthur.

Was it possible? Among the whores and pimps parading in front of the motels he recognized a familiar figure. Small and painfully thin, she barely resembled the happy, energetic daughter that he and Carolyn had raised. But—

She couldn't possibly match the flashy hookers in their vinyl boots and short skirts, a few of them sporting skin-tight spandex outfits instead, looking like down-on-their-luck superheroines trying to raise capital to use in their endless struggle against the forces of evil.

But there she was. He was sure. Well, he was almost sure.

The traffic flow was heavy and every foot of curb space was occupied. He pulled into the first motel parking lot he could reach. It was the Uncle Sam. A huge neon figure in red, white, and blue stars and stripes tipped his high hat to passersby. A bright pink sign in the office window flashed
VACANCY
.

He slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the Prius. He ran out of the parking lot, back to the sidewalk. Women of every shade and description used the space as if they were fashion models and the sidewalk was their runway.

And there she was. The red hair. The slim body. The little-girl, just-growing-up, hips. How could she…? How could anyone…?

She had her back to him. She hadn't seen him. He couldn't run as well as he had twenty or thirty years ago; the decades had cut into his wind, as well. He called out, “Rebi, Rebi, stop! Stop, Rebi! It's your father, Rebi! Come home, please! Stop! At least talk.”

He felt a heavy impact on the back of his head, and as he tumbled forward, throwing out his hands to break his fall, he thought he might have felt a sharp pain in his back, but there was no certainty at that point. There was a second impact as he hit the sidewalk facedown, and everything turned to blackness.

*   *   *

He woke up in bed in a bright room. There were sensors stuck to his chest and a tube in his arm—he followed it carefully with his eyes—rose to an IV bag hung from a tall hook. Some kind of electronic gadget stood near his bed, numbers flashing and changing in neon blue and a round CRT with a jagged line moving across its face. Just like hospital shows on TV.

There were one, two, three people in the room with him. One was a heavyset, brown-skinned woman wearing hospital scrubs. There was a male in midnight blue, a silver badge on his uniform chest. Cop. Cop. OPD cop. Right. The third person was a woman, wearing a tweed jacket and what looked like a button-down shirt. He'd been in Oakland, the last he'd known he was in Oakland, outside that motel, the Uncle Sam Motel, opposite the big park.

And he'd found Rebi. Or thought he'd found her. He was running after her, out of breath, stumbling, and she was running away. Or had she turned at the last moment? Had she turned, and had he seen her face, and had she seen his, had she recognized him? Had she started back? Had she moved toward him instead of away? Had he clasped her in his arms? Had he lifted her in the air the way he had when she was a happy toddler, crowing with love and delight? Had they started for the Prius, started for home?

No, he told himself, that was only a dream, only a sweet, brief dream.

There had been the impact on the back of his head, the pain in his side, the second impact as he hit the sidewalk. He tried to sit up but he couldn't move in bed. There was a pain in his lower back, at once sharp and hot and intense, and yet remote and fuzzy. His very thoughts were fuzzy. Probably—he was aware enough to figure it out—probably the result of a painkiller.

That's what they gave you in hospitals.

The woman in civilian garb was talking to him. She'd been talking for a while, he realized, but he had no idea what she'd been saying.

He opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out except a dry, gagging sound. The brown-skinned woman in the hospital scrubs held a glass for him, a glass with a straw, one of those awful glass straws, he didn't know that they used them anymore. He drew on the glass straw and felt a wave of freshness in his mouth. The woman took the glass away.

The woman in the tweed jacket said, “Maybe I'd better start again, do you think, Mr. Horton? You
are
Mr. Horton?”

He managed a small nod. He was sore all over, he wasn't sure whether from the blow on the head or the hard landing on the sidewalk. And the sharp pain in his back made him wince every time he moved, drugs or no drugs.

“I—I am.”

“Mr. Horton, you're a very lucky man.”

“I don't…” Pause, deep breath, try again. “I don't feel lucky. What happened?”

“You've been hit on the head and stabbed in the back. You're lucky to be alive. Do you know where you are?”

He tried to twist his head around but gave up after one roaring pain. “Looks like a hospital room,” he managed.

“That's right. You're in Kaiser Permanente Oakland. Do you know how you got here?”

“No—no idea.”

“Officer Torrance”—the cop nodded to Horton—“found you on the sidewalk in front of the Uncle Sam Motel. We're just up the street from there. Kaiser gets a lot of input from that motel row.”

“Got your ID from your wallet, Mr. Horton. It's in the hospital office safe now, with your wristwatch and rings.”

The cop came closer to Joseph's bed. “Mr. Horton, I very nearly arrested you for soliciting sex with a minor. That's a very serious charge. That's why Ms. Vance is here right now.”

He gestured toward the tweed-jacketed woman. “Ms. Teresa Vance is a deputy prosecutor with the Alameda County District Attorney's office.”

The woman nodded to Joseph. She took over the conversation.

“We're working constantly to suppress the sex trade but it's like playing Whac-A-Mole. We close them down on one street and they move to another. And, of course, street prostitution is just one facet of the problem. But, Mr. Horton, preying on children—I have to be honest with you, sir. If I had my way, I would throw the book at you. I really would.”

She exhaled angrily.

“But the young lady got away in the mêlée that followed the attack on you. So did your attacker. Probably her pimp. So we'd have a hard time proving this on you, for all that I would like to try. And I hope you've learned your lesson, sir. You came within an inch of your life. I mean that literally. Dr. Chen says that the person who wielded the knife on you was either extremely skillful or you were extremely lucky. As it is, you'll spend some time in this hospital and you'll go home with a scar. But I don't imagine you'll be showing it off at your health club and telling the story of how you got it.”