“That’s not the way I heard it.”
“You think we’re pimps, is that it?”
“For a highly specialized clientele.”
“Even if it were true, you couldn’t prove it.”
“I’m not interested in proving it.”
“No? What are you interested in?”
“Doing the job I was hired to do.”
“Finding Janice Stanley.”
“You wouldn’t have any idea of where she is, would you?”
“No. I’d tell you if I did.”
“Sure you would. When did you see her last?”
He thought the question over before he answered it. “Last week sometime. I don’t remember the exact day.”
“Friday, Saturday?”
“Before that. Early part of the week.”
“Talk to her after that?”
“No.”
“She have any dates scheduled after the one with Jorge Quilmes?”
“Now how would I know that?” he said through his cocky little smile.
“Somebody used her for a punching bag on the weekend.”
“Is that right? Sorry to hear it.”
“Could’ve been one of her johns.”
“Johns? She’s a prostitute, is she?”
“Call girl. I understand there’s a lot of money in that kind of work.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Could also have been someone she knows, someone who set up her dates for her.”
“We’re back to that again. Back to me.”
“I’m just tossing out possibilities.”
“Prostitutes get beat up all the time,” Lassiter said. “Sometimes by their husbands, if they have husbands.”
“Doesn’t apply in this case.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Pretty sure,” I said.
“Then there’re the creeps,” he said. “Could be one of them.”
“Creeps?”
“You know, the ones who think any hooker is fair game-hassle them looking to get laid. Have you considered that possibility?”
I said, “Maybe I should.”
He said, “There’s one like that in the place she was staying.”
“… The Hillman? Who?”
“Desk clerk. Redhaired little punk named Phil.”
“He hassled Janice Stanley?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Ginger Benn, then. That you do know about.”
He shrugged.
“She give in to him? No, she wouldn’t. Not her.”
“I wouldn’t bother her about it,” Lassiter said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother Mr. Quilmes or any of his friends anymore, either.”
“Or you or QCL.”
“That’s right. Keep off toes that might just get sore enough to start kicking back.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Lassiter?”
“I don’t make threats. Merely offering some friendly advice.”
Enough. I didn’t want to play with him anymore. I said, “I’ll keep it under advisement,” and got to my feet.
“You do that. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. I won’t forget you, either.”
“Same here.”
Lassiter stood up slowly, the way he had in the anteroom. The smile was still in place, but a little less suave, a little less cocky. He gave me a mock salute and went out, leaving the door open, in a kind of lazy saunter like a man without a care in the world. But it was pose and pretense now. He was still steaming, still worried underneath.
I sat down again. The tight little confrontation had accomplished something positive, by God. You spend a couple of days running around, talking to a variety of people, and not getting anywhere on the Krochek disappearance, and the one man you least expect to be of help drops the best lead yet right into your lap. And as a throwaway, no less. Lassiter hadn’t been trying to give me anything when he brought up the Hillman desk clerk; on the contrary, he’d intended it as a red herring to focus my attention somewhere other than on him and QCL, Inc.
The connecting door opened. Tamara said, “I was listening.”
“I figured you would be.”
“That’s one sleazy dude under all that cool. You think he’s dangerous?”
“Probably. But not to us.”
“So what’re you going to do?”
“About Lassiter?”
“Him and QCL.”
“Turn over what we’ve got on them, and anything else Kinsella can dig up, to Jake Logan at SFPD. He can pass it on down to Vice. Not much they can do unless Lassiter steps out of line somehow or one of the victims turns on him, but at least they’ll have the information on file.”
“Ginger Benn, you think?”
“Doubtful. Too afraid of what might happen to her husband. I don’t see Janice Krochek doing it, either-if she’s still alive.”
“She’d’ve turned up by now if she was.”
“You’d think so. What worries me is that she might never turn up again at all, alive or dead.”
Jake Runyon showed up just then and poked his head through the door of my office. “Just the man I wanted to see,” I said. “I was about to give you a call.”
“What’s up?”
“Couple of things. Your pro bono case, for one-I had a talk with Nick Kinsella. The Krochek disappearance, for another. How’d you like to take a ride, put in some overtime?”
“Okay with me. Where’re we going?”
“The Hillman. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
19
There was a different clerk behind the desk when Runyon and I walked into the lobby. Thin, middle-aged, dour. “Phil Partain?” he said. “His shift ends at five. You friends of his?”
“Personal business,” I said.
“Uh-huh. He don’t have many friends.”
“Where can we find him?”
