Elaine licked her lips one more time, flipped the visor back, and adjusted what I guessed was some sort of exploding bra.
“It’s an escape, role-play, turn-on. Call it whatever you want. But sometimes I do it. Not do it like a pro. I mean, I’m not a fucking hooker, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I kept my eyes on the road and let her talk.
“Really though, Kelly. What’s the big deal? Twenty-five dollars for a mouth, ten for a hand. Shit goes on in every single bar in the city. Buy me dinner or just give me the money up front. Same fucking difference.”
“Lot of difference.”
“You think so?”
“Down here the mouth might belong to a thirteen-year-old, and the date might be looking to rip your throat out,” I said. “But you know all about that. Is that what you’re trying to do? You want to get back there?”
I didn’t expect a response and didn’t get any. Instead she propped her feet up on my dashboard and sulked, but only for a bit.
“You’re cute when you get mad, Kelly.”
I ignored her.
“Have you found out who attacked me?”
“Working on it.”
I didn’t want to tell her about the DNA match between her shirt and the Grime file. Or about the possible connection to Pollard. Not yet anyway. I wasn’t sure why, but there it was.
“Is that what you were out on now?” she said. “My case?”
“Listen, Elaine. Your evidence file was destroyed a couple of years back. Whatever I find probably doesn’t matter. The DA would never touch it.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I don’t get hardly anything when it comes to you, Elaine. So why don’t you tell me about it.”
She looked out an empty window and into herself. I can’t say exactly what she saw. Loss. Regret. Unrealized anger. Maybe all three.
“At the end of the day,” she said, “nothing gets undone, does it? I mean whatever happened, happened. No district attorney, no court is gonna change that. So really, I just want to know. A name, a face. Someone, I guess, to hate. Is that so wrong? Most people probably think it’s pretty sick.”
I didn’t say anything, just let it go. She seemed good with that. After a while she lit up another cigarette, rolled down the window, and blew smoke out of it. I broke the silence and got back to business.
“You have any paperwork from the assault?”
“What sort of paperwork?”
“Hospital admissions form, police reports, anything.”
“Nothing. I woke up in the hospital.”
“Police never came to visit you?”
“Nobody.”
“Didn’t that seem strange to you?”
“I was half-alive when they released me. Just wanted to get home. Back to Sedan. Didn’t really care about the rest.”
“Not back then.”
“Nope. Just wanted to go home and hide.”
Elaine took a deep drag, flicked her butt out the window, and rolled it up.
“I guess your feelings changed,” I said.
“Apparently. Take a left here.”
I took the turn. Ten minutes later we pulled in front of a late-night bar on Diversey called the Bel-Air Lounge. Sixty years ago it was a hot spot, a place where Humphrey Bogart would go to get lost, get drunk, and get laid. Now it was a place where a man with a bad hair-weave played Billy Joel on the piano all night. Divorced men and women snuggled around, throwing money in the jar just like the song said, getting drunk late, thinking about all the things they never had and pretended they missed. Eventually the bar would close. The lights would go out and they would melt away, sometimes together for a coupling, quick and ugly, then, inevitably, each to his or her own.
“It’s not that bad,” Elaine said. “The guy will stay open as long as I want. Sound good?”
She was on again, a live current, jittery, dangerous, exciting.
“No thanks,” I said.
“What’s the matter, Kelly. You don’t like?”
She moved across the front seat, closer now, and tilted her head up at me.
“Or maybe you’re screwing the redhead?”
“You know you’re fucked.”
She laughed.
“You are screwing the redhead. Wow.”
She moved away again and picked up her purse.
“All right, Kelly. That’s interesting. Thanks for the talk. It really settled me. I’ll see you around.”
Elaine Remington got out of the car, walked across the empty divide of Diversey Avenue, and into the lounge. An old man at the bar gave her a leer you can only get away with at five a.m. in Chicago. She cozied right up and ordered a drink. The old-timer slid his stool a bit closer as I slid the car into drive and headed home, to my long lost and mercifully empty bed.
CHAPTER 49
So what did you find?”
It was Diane. It was just past ten in the morning. It was entirely too early to be talking about Daniel Pollard.
“He likes to go dumpster diving,” I said.
“Come again?”
“That’s what he did. Cruised a stroll in Cal City for a while, then hit the dumpsters. Pulled up a bunch of garbage and stuck it in the backseat of his car.”
Silence at the other end of the line. Understandable. Finally, she spoke.
“And then what?”
“Back to the stroll for a little more girl watching. In bed before sunrise.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah. Want to hear another weird thing? One of the women he was ogling turned out to be my client.”
“Client as in Elaine Remington?”
“I pulled her off a curb. Claims she likes to go down there every now and then. Plays dress-up.”
More silence. Longer this time. A lot longer.
“Is that what she told you?” Diane said.
“Yeah. I’m going to put a call in to Rachel Swenson today. See if I can set up some time with one of her counselors.”
“You think Elaine will go for that?”
“I think she’s dangerous. At least to herself.”
“Maybe finding the person who raped her will help.”
“Not sure that’s going to do it. But we can try.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Covert DNA,” I said.
“From Pollard?”
“I think it answers all our questions. I’m going to call Rodriguez today and set it up. You want the exclusive?”
“You know it.”
