“Or the bell’s broken.”
“But the front door’s unlocked,” Kelly said.
“Wow,” Jesse said.
“A trained professional,” Kelly said.
They went into the dank hallway and up two flights of sagging stairs. The stairwell was dark. There was a burned-out lightbulb in an old porcelain ceiling fixture at each landing. At the dark top of the stairs Jesse knocked on the door.
“It’s good practice,” he said. “How else do I learn?”
He knocked again. There was the sound of movement. Then silence. Then the door opened on its chain.
A young female voice said, “Come back later.”
The door started to shut but Jesse put his foot in the opening.
“Dawn Davis?”
“What do you want?”
“Boston Police,” Kelly said.
He held up his badge.
“Police?”
“Yep.”
“It’s too dark,” she said. “I can’t see what you’re holding up.”
Kelly put the badge into the door opening.
“You got a light in there?” he said.
“I guess so.”
“Turn it on,” he said.
There was silence for a moment, and then a light went on inside the apartment. The girl was a shadow in the narrow door opening. She stared at the badge for a time.
“Whaddya want?” she said.
“We want to come in and talk with you,” Kelly said.
“About what?”
“About whether or not to kick in this door and bust you as a material witness in a homicide investigation,” Kelly said.
“I didn’t kill nobody,” the girl said.
“Open the fucking door,” Jesse said.
The girl didn’t answer for a moment, then she made a shadowy movement that might have been a shrug.
“Okay,” she said. “Get your foot out so I can take the chain off.”
The shades were down. The room was dark except for a light from the bare bulb of a table lamp on the floor. A cookstove was against the back wall, and a sink. The floor was a brick-pattern linoleum, scuffed away in places to show the narrow floorboards underneath. There was a box spring and mattress with no sheets and a thick down comforter rumpled with sleep. There were clothes piled on the floor. A half-open door revealed a narrow bathroom with tile walls and an old tub.
“You ought to charge more,” Kelly said.
“For what?” the girl said.
She was a small girl, with big dark eyes that dominated her face. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt. The sleeves were too long and concealed her hands. She was barefooted and, except for a hint of bosom under the sweatshirt, looked about nine.
“Dawn,” Jesse said. “We’ve talked with T. P. Pollinger.”
“Who?”
Jesse realized that she might not know who Pollinger was. Just a John, at an address. One of many.
“Money manager in the Back Bay,” Jesse said. “I followed you there on Monday, after Alan Garner gave you the address.”
She bent down and picked up a pack of Virginia Slims, got a cigarette out of the pack, got a butane lighter out of her pocket, and lit the cigarette.
“So?”
“So we got prostitution if we want to arrest you,” Kelly said.
“So?”
Jesse looked at Kelly. They both smiled. She was a little girl alone in a run-down apartment with two men, and she was being tough. They both knew that the bravado of young kids was rooted mostly in ignorance. If they just braved it out they could get away with it. She was wrong this time, but both of them admired her a little.
