hoping that Shea had reported an address change, and struck out.
'Can you search your database of licensed drivers by address?' Clayton asked the office manager.
'You bet,' the manager said, turning to his keyboard.
'How far back do you want to go?'
'Six years.'
The man pulled up the data on his computer screen and printed out the information. The retired army officer, his wife, former occupants Tony and Martha Duran, and Deborah Shea topped the list. But another eight people, all young females, had also used the address to get licenses at one time or another.
'What is this address, an apartment or something?' the manager asked. 'A group home? A sorority house?'
'None of the above,' Clayton replied. 'It's a single-family house.'
'That's unreal. What's going on?'
'I'm not sure,' Clayton said, handing the list back to the manager. 'Can I have hard copies of the license information for each of those drivers?'
'Sure thing.'
Clayton took the information to the El Paso police headquarters and got a desk officer to cross-check all the names with computerized arrest records. Two of the women had rap sheets of one count each, for soliciting. The officer escorted Clayton to a vice-squad cop and introduced him as Detective Brewer. He was an older, soft-bellied man with a passive face who wore a shirt with a cigarette-ash burn in the pocket. His breath stank of nicotine.
Brewer pulled the offense reports on the women. Both had been busted at an El Paso hotel.
'What were the case dispositions?' Clayton asked.
It took a minute for Brewer to ferret out the notations. 'Both paid fines,' he said.
'Where can I find them?' Clayton asked.
'Hell if I know,' Brewer said. 'They haven't been seen in town for over a year, maybe two. Whores move around a lot these days, one city to the next.'
'What about their pimps?'
'There's nothing in the files about that.'
Brewer didn't seem particularly eager to help, and his attitude bothered Clayton. He stuck Deborah Shea's motor vehicle photograph under the man's nose. 'Do you know this woman?'
Brewer shook his head.
'How about Luis Rojas?'
'I don't know any Luis Rojas who's working girls in El Paso,' the detective said.
One by one, Clayton fed Brewer all the driver's license photographs to review.
'Except for the two whores, I don't know any of these women,' Brewer said, handing them back.
Although he didn't mean it, Clayton said, 'Thanks.'
Brewer nodded, watched the Indian cop leave, and dialed a private number. 'Tell Mr. Rojas I need to talk to him,' he said to the kid who answered the phone.
'Call back at six,' Fidel said. 'He'll be here then.'
The deputy's report on the Norvell DWI stop identified the passenger in the car as Helen Pearson, and gave a rural route address. The phone book carried no listing, so Kerney called the post office and learned that Pearson now had a postal box. The application listed her permanent residence on a road off the Old Santa Fe Trail, just outside the city limits. It was a high-end neighborhood with big houses on large hillside view lots.
Kerney drove to the address. No one answered his knock at the main house, but two cars were parked in front of a large detached studio. A sign over the door read BUCKAROO DESIGNS.
Inside, two Hispanic women were working at sewing machines, and an Anglo woman was pinning pattern paper to some fabric at a large worktable in the center of the room. Racks of custom cowboy shirts, embroidered blue jeans, western-style dresses, and fringed jackets were lined up along a back wall. Bolts of fabric were neatly arranged on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Scraps of cloth littered the floor.
The Anglo woman looked up, set aside a pincushion, and crossed the room. About forty, she had brown hair cut short, delicate features, and wore no makeup other than lipstick. The face of a film actress flashed across Kerney's mind, but he couldn't put a name to it.
'Helen Pearson?' he asked.
'That's me,' the woman replied cheerily.
Kerney showed Pearson his shield and her smile faded. 'What is it?'
'I've a few questions about Tyler Norvell.'
Pearson broke off eye contact and her voice rose. 'What kind of questions?'
'You do know him?' Kerney asked, keeping an agreeable look on his face.
'Past tense,' Pearson said. 'I haven't seen him in many years.'
The palpable tension in Pearson's body made Kerney want to probe more. But the shut-down look in her eyes argued against it. He moved off subject. 'This is quite the enterprise you've got going,' he said, looking around the studio. 'How long have you been in business?'
'Eight years,' Pearson said, still frowning.
Pearson wore a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. 'Do you run the business with your husband?' Kerney asked.
She glanced at the ring as though it had betrayed her. 'No, he's a landscape architect.'
On a bulletin board behind a nearby desk were crayon drawings signed by Melissa and Stephen. 'Do you have children?' Kerney asked.
Pearson's tension rose again. Her hand fluttered to her neck and her eyes looked frightened. 'Why are you asking me all these things?'
'How long have you been married?' Kerney asked.
'Stop it,' Pearson hissed. She turned away to glance at the two women. 'Why are you questioning me like this?' she whispered.
'Would you be more comfortable if we talked outside?'
Pearson nodded stiffly, her eyes dark with worry. She walked through the open door and led Kerney a good distance away from the studio.
Pearson had reacted to Kerney's innocuous questions in a way that made him believe she was hiding something. A straight-out lie just might shake it loose. 'I know you worked for Norvell,' he said.
'What do you mean?'
'Do I really need to be more graphic? I'll put it another way: Norvell pimped for you.'
Pearson trembled, hugged herself, and said nothing.
Kerney stepped in closer. Pearson backed up. 'It looks like you've built a new life for yourself,' he said. 'Talking to me doesn't have to ruin it.'
She laughed, harshly, shallowly. 'Oh, so you're the good cop, right?'
'Or the bad cop,' Kerney replied, 'depending on how you want to play it.'
'What would the bad cop do?' she asked, struggling for composure.
'You have a husband, children, a thriving business, a reputation, new friends…'
Pearson finished Kerney's thought. 'Do I want them to know I was once a whore, a hooker, a prostitute?' The words spilled out of her.
'Something like that.'
She caved, lost her poise, buried her head in her hands. Kerney stayed back and let her cry. She forced herself to straighten up, composed her face, and spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the hilltop house, the views of the mountains in the distance, her reinvented, respectable life.
'If I hadn't done what I did, I would have none of this,' Pearson said. 'Can you understand that?'
Kerney nodded.
'How can you possibly protect me?'
'When the time comes, I'll ask the DA to have you appear before a grand jury. Your testimony will be sealed and never made public.'
Kerney knew he might be making a false promise, and while he didn't want to cause Pearson any pain, getting to Norvell was much more important than preserving the woman's secret.
