on the street, held with a mixture of awe, fear, and respect, was that of a man who could be trusted but never crossed. By the time this piece of street theater was over, word would begin spreading in the Bayview that he had picked up Eddie Fleet.
'You keep Eddie company,' Minnehan directed Breslin. He climbed up the stairs, Monk and Ainsworth following, to knock on the door Fleet had tried to enter.
It took several more knocks until a young woman answered, clutching the front of her white robe. She was in her early twenties, Monk guessed, with one eye swollen half shut in her scared, pretty face. It was Eddie Fleet's notion of foreplay, Monk supposed.
'Mind if we come in,' Minnehan said. Though it was phrased like a question, the woman knew that it was not one: she lived in public housing, and any problem with the law could get her thrown out. In her world Larry Minnehan had more power than the President.
Her name was Betty Sims, and she turned out to be no housekeeper. She backed away from them into a cramped three-room apartment with sheets strewn across the couch and floor, CDs scattered all over a small kitchen table, and what looked like a couple of days' of dirty dishes in the sink. The chicken cooking on the stove seemed to Monk a sad gesture toward domesticity, as did the incongruous Chinese painting above the couch. The woman's one unblemished eye as she watched them was frightened and sad and deeply resigned, and Monk could feel her shame and helplessness at being exposed to the judgment of strangers.
Minnehan left to search her bedroom. With a nod to Betty Sims, Monk followed.
Her bureau was covered with cosmetics and empty beer bottles. Minnehan yanked open the top drawer, revealing a treasure trove of frilly bras and panties with the sales tags still on them.
'Girl's an underwear klepto,' he observed.
Ainsworth was studying a framed picture on the bureau: next to the carousel in Golden Gate Park a slight woman stood beside a fleshy, smiling man. 'Demetrius George,' Ainsworth said. 'Last time I looked, he was a suspect in a gang murder.'
'Still is,' Minnehan said. 'Let's ask Betty.'
Betty Sims sat on the couch now, shoulders slumped, knees pressed together beneath her half-open robe. Minnehan held the picture out to her; his other hand, Monk saw, held a wad of tinfoil plucked off the top of the bureau.
Betty's gaze flickered from the photo to the wad of foil. 'Who's the lucky girl with Demetrius?' Minnehan asked.
Betty glanced back at the picture. 'My cousin, Cordelia. Cordelia White.'
'What's her address?'
Betty told him. 'Know where we can find Demetrius?' Minnehan asked her politely.
She shook her head. 'Maybe Cordelia does.'
Without asking anything more, Minnehan took out his cell phone and directed someone at the station to visit Cordelia White. Then he opened up the tinfoil and showed Betty Sims two rocks of crack cocaine—maybe forty bucks' worth, Monk thought. Enough to get her tossed out in the street.
'Who this belong to, Betty?'
She looked away, silent. Minnehan appraised her swollen eye. In a gentle tone, he asked, 'Eddie do that to you?'
She hesitated, then shook her head, no longer looking at Minnehan. Still speaking quietly, Minnehan said, 'If you can, Betty, stay away from him. Guys like Eddie don't get better.'
The words were followed by silence. In an affectless tone, she asked. 'Am I going to be in trouble?'
Minnehan studied her with a look akin to resignation. 'The crack?' he answered. 'No. That's Eddie's now.'
They left her sitting on the couch. Closing the door behind him, Minnehan murmured, 'Demetrius and Cordelia. Almost sounds like Shakespeare.'
* * *
Monk and Ainsworth put Eddie Fleet in the same room they had used to question Payton Price.
He sat staring at the wall, eyes as blank as poker chips. The bulky gray sweatshirt he wore, far too thick for such a day, was meant, Monk supposed, to create the illusion of a body mass to go with the attitude.
'Minnehan took your last two rocks,' Ainsworth said. 'I don't think he likes you beating up on Betty. I don't think he likes you, period.'
The tacit threat induced only silence. Monk placed the photo of Thuy Sen between them. 'Ever seen this girl, Eddie?'
Seconds passed before Fleet looked down. Then he gave an almost indiscernible shake of the head.
'Was that a no?' Ainsworth asked skeptically.
This time Fleet shrugged. 'I never seen her.'
' 'Cause my friend Inspector Monk has. He saw her floating in the bay.'
Fleet neither moved nor spoke. 'The thing about a body,' Monk told him conversationally, 'is it just lies there. Most uncooperative kind of person you'll ever know.
'Now it's one thing, Eddie, to murder somebody in his house—you just leave him there. But killing someone at your own house is a whole different deal. As long as the body stays there, it's incriminating.
'So you got to move it. That's how this poor child wound up in water way too cold to swim in.'
