7th Heaven

Why would a pretty girl like Junie turn pro?

“I took my name from an old Liza Minnelli movie,” she was telling Conklin. “It was called Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon. A lot of my clients ask me to tell them that,” she said with a wistful smile.

Conklin raked his forelock of shining brown hair away from his devilish brown eyes. I was sure that Rich had never seen the movie or read the book. “Is that so?” he said. “That’s cool.”

“So, Junie,” I said, “most of your clients are prep school kids?”

“Tell me the truth, Sergeant Boxer. Should I get a lawyer? Because I think you’re trying to say that I have sex with underage boys, and that’s not true.”

“You ask for their driver’s licenses before you take off your pants?”

“We’re not interested in your, ah, social activities, Junie,” Conklin said, breaking in. “We’re only interested in Michael Campion.”

“I told you,” she said, her voice trembling just a bit. “I’ve never met him, and I think I would know.”

“Understand,” I said, “we’re not blaming you for anything. We know Michael was sick. Maybe his heart gave out while he was with you -”

“He was never a client,” Junie insisted. “I would have been honored, you know, but it just didn’t happen.”

Conklin turned off the dazzling smile, said, “Junie. Work with us and we’ll leave you and your business alone. Keep stonewalling us and vice is going to nail you to the wall.”

We played patty-cake with Junie for about two hours, using every legal technique in the book. We made her feel safe. We leaned on her, lied to her, reassured her, and threatened her. And after all that, Junie still denied any knowledge of Michael Campion. In the end, I played our only card, slamming my hand down on the table for emphasis.

“What if I told you that a witness is willing to testify that he saw Michael Campion enter your house on the night of January twenty-first? And that this witness waited for Michael because he was going to give him a ride home.

“But that never happened, Junie, because Michael never left your house.”

“A witness? But that’s impossible,” said the young woman. “It has to be a mistake.”

I was desperate to crack open this one miserable lead, but we were getting no traction at all. I was starting to believe that Jacobi’s anonymous tipster was yet another crank caller – and I was seriously considering waking Jacobi and peppering him with a few choice words – when Junie looked down at the table. Her eyes were moist and her face seemed pinched, actually transformed by grief.

“You’re right, you’re right, and I can’t take this anymore. If you turn that thing off, I’ll tell you what happened.”

I exchanged startled looks with Conklin. Then I snapped out of it. I reached up to the video camera and switched it off. “You can’t go wrong if you tell us the truth,” I said, my heart going ga-lump, ga- lump.

I leaned forward, folded my hands on the table.

And Junie began to tell us everything.

Chapter 6

“IT HAPPENED just like you said,” Junie said, looking up at us with an anguished expression I read as fear and pain.

“Michael died?” I asked her. “He is, in fact, dead?”

“Can I start at the beginning?” Junie asked Conklin.

“Sure,” Rich told her. “Take your time.”

“See, I didn’t know who he was at first,” Junie said. “When Michael called to make the date, he gave me a fake name. So when I opened the door and there he was – oh, my God. The boy in the bubble. He’d come to see me!”

“What happened next?” I asked.

“He was really nervous,” Junie said. “Shifting from one foot to the other. Looking at the window like someone could be watching him. I offered him a drink, but he said no, he didn’t want to forget anything. He said that he was a virgin.”

Junie bowed her head and tears spilled out of her eyes, dropped to the table. Conklin passed her the box of tissues, and we looked at each other in shock as we waited her out.

“A lot of boys are virgins when they come to me,” she said at last. “Sometimes they like to pretend that we’re having a date, and I make sure it’s the best date they ever had.”

“I’m sure,” Conklin murmured. “So is that what happened with Michael? He pretended he was on a date?”

“Yeah,” Junie said. “And as soon as we got into the bedroom, he told me his real name – and I told him mine!

“He got a real kick out of that, and then he started telling me about his life. He was a champion chess player on the Internet, did you know that? And he didn’t act like a celebrity. He was super real. I started to think we were on a date, too.”

“You got around to having sex with him, Junie?” I asked.

“Well, sure. He put the money on the night table, and I took off his clothes, and we had, you know, just started when – when he had to stop. He said he was in pain,” Junie said, touching her chest with the flat of her palm. “And I knew about his heart, of course, but I hoped it would pass.”

And then she broke down, put her arms on the table, her head in her arms, and sobbed as though she’d really cared.

“He got worse,” Junie choked out. “He was saying, ‘Call my dad,’ but I couldn’t move. I didn’t know how to call his father. And if I had, what would I say? That I was a prostitute? His dad was Governor Campion. He would’ve put me in jail forever.

“So I held Michael in my arms and sang to him,” Junie told us. “I hoped he’d start to feel better,” she said, lifting her tearstained face. “But he got worse.”

Chapter 7

THE MUSCLE TWITCHING in Conklin’s jaw was the only outward sign that he was as stunned by Junie’s confession as I was.

“How long did it take for Michael to die?” he asked Junie Moon.

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple of minutes. Maybe a little more. It was awful, awful,” Junie said, shaking her head at the memory. “About then, that’s when I called my boyfriend.”

“You called your boyfriend?” I shouted. “Is he a doctor?”

“No. But I needed him. And so Ricky came over, and Michael had passed away by then, so we put him into the bathtub. And then Ricky and I talked for a long time about what to do.”

I wanted to scream, You moron! You might have saved him! Michael Campion might have lived. I wanted to shake her. Slap her bimbo face – so I got a grip on myself, sat back, and let Conklin keep the ball rolling.

“So what did you do with his body, Junie? Where is Michael now?”

“I don’t know.”