was entirely different—deeper, more masculine—when she shouted, “Atlanta Police Department!” She saw Amanda’s expression and gave her a wink before banging again. “Open up!” she ordered.
Amanda listened to her own heartbeat, the quick gulps of breath. Seconds passed. Evelyn raised her hand again, then dropped it when a muffled woman’s voice said, “Jesus,” from behind the door.
There was a shuffling noise inside the apartment. A chain slid back. Then a lock turned. Then another lock. Then the handle moved as the thumb latch was toggled.
The girl inside was obviously a prostitute, though she was dressed in a thin cotton shift that was more appropriate for a ten-year-old girl. Bleach blonde hair hung to her waist. Her skin was so white it bordered on blue. Her age was between twenty and sixty. Track marks riddled her body—her arms, her neck, her legs, pricking open like wet, red mouths on the veins of her bare feet. Missing teeth gave her face a concave appearance. Amanda could see how the ball-and-socket joint in her shoulder worked as she folded her arms low on her waist.
Evelyn asked, “Kitty Treadwell?”
Her voice had a smoker’s rasp. “Whatchu bitches want?”
“Good morning to you, too.” Evelyn breezed into the apartment, which looked just as Amanda expected. Molded dishes filled the sink. Empty fast-food bags were everywhere. Clothes were strewn across the floor. There was a stained blue couch in the middle of the room with a coffee table in front. Syringes and a spoon rested on a dingy washrag. Matches. Pieces of cigarette filters. A small bag of dirty white powder was laid out beside two cockroaches that were either dead or so high they couldn’t move. Someone had pulled the kitchen stove into the middle of the room. The oven door was open, the edge resting on the coffee table to support the large color television set on top.
“Is that Dinah?” Evelyn asked. She turned up the volume. Jack Cassidy was singing with Dinah Shore. “I just love her voice. Did you see David Bowie on here last week?”
The girl blinked several times.
Amanda checked for roaches before turning on the floor lamp. A harsh light filled the room. The windows were covered in yellow construction paper, but that only served to filter the bright morning sun. Perhaps that was why Amanda felt safer inside the apartment than she had in the stairwell. Her heartbeat was returning to normal. She wasn’t sweating any more than dictated by the temperature.
“David Bowie,” Evelyn repeated, turning off the TV. “He was on
Amanda stated the obvious. “She’s stoned out of her gourd.” A heavy sigh came from deep inside her chest. They had risked their lives for this?
Evelyn patted the girl on the cheek. Her palm made a firm slapping sound against the skin. “You in there, sweetheart?”
“I’d soak that hand in Clorox,” Amanda advised. “Let’s get out of here. If this girl was raped, she probably deserved it.”
“Hodge sent us here for a reason.”
“He sent you and Vanessa here,” Amanda countered. “I can’t believe we’ve wasted our whole morning —”
“Fonzie,” the girl mumbled. “He wa’ talkin’ to Fonzie.”
“That’s right,” Evelyn said, smiling at Amanda as if she’d won a prize. “Bowie was on
“I seen ’em.” Kitty ambled over to the couch and collapsed onto the cushions. Amanda didn’t know if it was the drugs or her circumstances that made the girl’s speech almost unintelligible. She sounded as if someone had turned upside down the entire Flannery O’Connor canon and shaken her out. “I don’member what’e sang.”
“You know, I don’t either.” Evelyn motioned for Amanda to check the rest of the place.
Amanda asked, “What am I looking for, back editions of
Evelyn smiled sweetly. “Wouldn’t that be funny if you actually found some?”
“Just hilarious.”
Reluctantly, Amanda did as she was asked, trying not to let her arms touch the walls of the narrow hallway as she walked to the back. The apartment was larger than her own. There was a proper bedroom separate from the living area. The door to the closet was off its hinges. Several torn black garbage bags seemed to hold the girl’s clothing. The bed was a pile of stained sheets wadded up on the carpet.
Impossibly, the bathroom was even more disgusting than the rest of the apartment. Black mold had replaced the grout in the tile. The sink and toilet were serving double duty as ashtrays. The trashcan was overflowing with used sanitary napkins and toilet paper. The floor was smeared with something Amanda didn’t want to know about.
Taking up every available surface were various personal grooming products, which, to Amanda’s thinking, was the very definition of irony. Two cans of Sunsilk hairspray. Four Breck shampoo bottles at varying levels. A ripped box of Tampax. An empty bottle of Cachet by Prince Matchabelli. Two open pots of Pond’s cold cream, both caked with a yellowed rind. Enough makeup to stock the Revlon counter at Rich’s. Brushes. Pencils. Liquid eyeliner. Mascara. Two combs, both clumped with hair. Three very well used toothbrushes sticking out of a Mayor McCheese drinking glass.
The shower curtain was torn from the hooks, giving the cockroaches in the tub a clear view of Amanda. They stared at her intently as she shuddered uncontrollably. She gripped her purse, knowing she was going to have to shake it out before she even thought about putting it in the car.
Back in the living room, Evelyn had moved on from Arthur Fonzarelli to the reason for their visit. “Andy Treadwell is your cousin or your brother?”
“Uncah,” the girl said, and Amanda assumed she meant the elder Andrew Treadwell. “Wha’ time it is?”
Amanda looked at her watch. “Nine o’clock.” She felt the need to add, “In the morning.”
“Shee-it.” The girl reached down between the couch cushions and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Amanda watched as, entranced, the girl studied the pack of Virginia Slims as if they’d just fallen like manna from heaven. Slowly, she took out a cigarette. It was bent at an angle. Still, she grabbed the matches off the table and with shaking hands lit the cigarette. She blew out a stream of smoke.
“I hear those will kill you,” Evelyn said.
“I’s waitin’,” the girl answered.
Evelyn countered, “There are faster ways.”
“You stick aroun’, you see how fast.”
Amanda detected an edge to the girl’s tone. “Why is that?”
“Them kids done seen ya pull up. My daddy gonna wanna know why two white bitches chattin’ me up.”
Evelyn said, “I think your uncle Andy is worried about you.”
“He want his dick suck again?”
Amanda exchanged a look with Evelyn. Most of these girls claimed an uncle or father had abused them. Around the sex crimes units they called it an Oedipal complex. Not technically correct, but close enough, and obviously a waste of police time.
Kitty said, “You cain’t arrest me. I ain’t did nothin’.”
“We don’t want to arrest you,” Evelyn tried again. “We were told by our sergeant that you’d been raped.”
“S’what I get pay for, ain’it?” She blew out another plume of smoke, this one straight into their faces.
Evelyn’s sunny disposition faltered. “Kitty, we need to speak with you and take a statement.”
“Ain’t ma problem.”
“All right. We’ll just leave then.” Evelyn snatched the bag of heroin off the coffee table and turned on her heel.
If Amanda hadn’t been so surprised to see Evelyn take the drugs, she would’ve been heading toward the door herself. As it was, she saw everything—the shock on the girl’s face, the way she sprang from the couch, fingers out like the claws on a cat.
Seemingly of its own volition, Amanda’s foot rose up. She didn’t trip the girl. She kicked her in the ribs, sending her straight into the stove. The blow was hard. Kitty slammed into the television, breaking off the stove door. The TV cracked against the floor. Tubes popped. Glass shattered.
Evelyn stared at Amanda in visible shock. “What was that?”
