Only Child

I didn’t even try.

One of the channels had a story about this guy who killed his girlfriend and stuffed her into a trunk in his apartment. He was a well-connected rich boy, so they gave him bail. He jumped bond and made it out of the country. Ended up living in France. Living good, too. For years, the French wouldn’t extradite him, because he was facing the death penalty here, which went against their high moral principles. France is famous for protecting people from oppression. Ask Roman Polanski.

I heard the echo of Terry’s school conversation in my head. Movies are amazing.

And Cyn. Power power power.

“Not to be conceited, but I am, like, so cute, all my friends tell me I could be a model, except I’m not tall,” Michelle girl-gushed into the phone. “Is it, like, for real that you have a studio and everything?”

...

“Oh, wow! I know where that is. That would be perfect. Only, it has to be after school, all right? Like right around this time? Not at—”

...

“Do you pay, like, by the hour?”

...

“Oooh! Really? How many hours could I—?”

...

“A gif? You want me to send you a...Oh, you mean, like, to see if I...”

...

“Couldn’t I just...?”

...

“Oh, okay. But I don’t have any really good pictures of myself. I mean, that’s what I wanted you to...”

...

“I’ll do it tonight! Just give me your addy....”

...

“Thanks! Buh-bye!”

“You did it perfect, honey,” I told Michelle.

“Swear to God, I closed my eyes, I thought you were seventeen,” Rejji praised her.

“But it’s no good, right?” Cyn said, catching my eye.

“I don’t think so, Cyn. You see what he’s doing, scamming girls into sending him pictures of themselves over the Inter-net, so they can ‘audition’ to be ‘models’ for him. He probably does have a little studio set up in his house. Maybe even actually pays a girl, every once in a while. It’s sleazy, but probably not even a crime. He didn’t ask you for nude shots, did he, Michelle?”

“No, baby. I gave it back to you, word-for-word. He wasn’t even suggesting anything. But, you know, some of those stupid girls, they’re going to go ahead and...”

“Sure,” I agreed, guessing their real reason was closer to the need-greed border than it was to stupidity.

“Couldn’t you at least go and talk to him?” Cyn said.

“There’s one thing that would qualify him,” I said to them all. “But I have to go back to the City and ask.”

I looked a question at Gateman as I came through the door. He shook his head. As good as the white-dragon tapestry in Mama’s window.

I went up to my place. My empty place.

It only took me a few minutes at the keyboard to get the answer. The Mole had scanned all of Wolfe’s paper on Vonni’s case into the hard drive of an IBM laptop, and Terry had shown me how to search the documents.

I cross-checked the info from Cyn—name, address, phone number. Nothing. Then I tried some keywords for the kind of thing he liked to do. Blank.

The man who scammed teenage girls into cyber-sending him naughty-cheerleader pictures had never been interviewed by the cops.

Late that night, alone in my place, I wanted the comfort of the blues. I cued up some Roy Buchanan, drifted along with “Drowning on Dry Land.” Rode all the way up to Chicago with Charlie Musselwhite, a bluesman who had made that same trip. Spent some time there with native son Paul Butterfield, then went back down to Texas for some of Delbert’s honkytonk.

Finally, I put some Henske on, closed my eyes, got myself lost in Magic Judy’s “Dark Angel.” When I got to the end of that road, I picked up the cellular and dialed Gem’s number.

It rang twice. Then came the series of tones that were a signal to leave a message.

I never could think of one to leave. But I let her hear the music for a few seconds, so she’d know it was me.

I looked out my window. Down into the dark. The deep dark. The Zero. But it didn’t pull at me like it had once. The Zero is everywhere. Always waiting. If I had wanted to...just not be anymore, I wouldn’t have come home to do it.

“What do you want?” He was a middle-aged white male, nothing remarkable, standing in the doorway of a modest Cape Cod. Nine-fifteen on a Thursday evening; just past dark.

“Allow me to introduce myself, sir,” I said. “My name is Mr. White. And this,” I said, nodding toward Clarence, “is my associate, Mr. Black.”

“I’m not buying—”

“And we’re not selling, sir. May we come in?”

“What is—?” he said. But by then we were all inside.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “This won’t take a minute. Is there a place where we could sit down?”

“I...” A guy who’d made a career out of suggesting—hinting, implying, making sure you got the message, without actually saying anything himself. He’d read Clarence’s shoulder holster like a billboard. His eyes never left us as he walked over to a living room dominated by a blank-faced projection TV set.

“All we want is for you to take a look at this photograph,” I said, sitting down.

His mud-brown eyes came alive when I said “photograph,” but I didn’t know him well enough to guess whether it was fear or excitement.

I handed him Vonni’s picture. He took it, tentatively at first, then visibly relaxed as he examined it.

“Have you ever seen her?” I asked him, already knowing the answer.

“No,” he said—indignant, now that he was innocent. “What’s this all about?”

“We’re trying to locate anyone who might have been in contact with her,” I said.

“Why? Is she a runaway or something?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

“Oh. I didn’t...I mean, what happened?”

“It was in all the papers,” I told him. “About a year ago. That’s Vonni Greene.”

“That’s her? I mean, I know what you’re talking about now. I think I did see a picture...in the papers, right...but this doesn’t look like that one, I don’t think. You guys, you’re not cops, are you?”