“Unfortunately the latter.” He turned the security lock. “You should always use your deadbolt, Honey. It’s there for a reason.”
“You look upset.” She tightened her robe over ample breasts. The real labonza. Made her very popular. “Bad?”
“Girl named Brittany Newel. A former dancer at Havana. When she died, she was turning tricks for crack. Who knows? Maybe she was a runner as well. I’m about to visit her boyfriend. A dealer at Shakespeare’s. His name is Trent Minors.”
Honey shrugged.
Poe took out the stolen photo of Newel. “Know the girl, by any chance?”
Honey stared at the picture, but shook her head. “Nope.”
A stretch of silence.
Honey sighed. “All right. Go sit on the couch.”
Poe obeyed without question. She stood before him, then dropped to her knees and spread his legs. Unzipped his pants and went to work. Five minutes later, she was making coffee in the kitchen. She felt Poe encircle her waist from behind, kiss her neck.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Pleasure’s mine,” she answered. “You’re very good, you know.”
“Good?” Poe was puzzled. “You mean fast?”
She laughed out loud, broke contact. Turned to face him, holding a coffee urn. “Am I making this for nothing?”
“Probably.” Poe rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got to go back to work.”
“Poor Romulus.”
Poe took out his wallet. Honey put her hand over the billfold. “It’s on me.”
“No, no, no.” Rom pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “I pride myself on paying my bills.”
Honey snatched the Franklin. “Far be it from me to deny a man his dignity.”
Poe took out Brittany’s picture, showed it to Honey again. “Look at it, Honey. Doesn’t look a little familiar?”
Honey blew out air. “Rom, she’s a face in the crowd.”
“She danced at Havana—”
“You already said that.” Irked, she pushed the picture aside. “I don’t know her.”
“Don’t get peeved. I’m just doing my job.” Poe paused. “You know how it is. A young girl working strange men. I wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
He looked at her pointedly. She matched his stare. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re a very savvy woman. Just take care.”
“Always.” She softened, kissed his nose. “Good luck and good night.”
He shut the door softly behind him. A moment later, he heard the loud click of the deadbolt. Thinking of Brittany’s mutilated face … good that Honey had taken him seriously.
It was a typical minimum-wage apartment, but it was neat and clean and had tasteful repros on the wall—cubic forms and sketches. Poe’s eyes jumped from the walls to Minors nervously flattening the carpet. The blackjack dealer had slipped on a gray sweatshirt and jeans, but hadn’t quite gotten around to shoes. He had hairy feet. His face was long, with even features except for the mouth. Thin, tight lips gave him an unforgiving expression. To stop him from pacing, Poe asked for coffee. Minors brewed up a batch as bitter as his mood.
Angrily, he said, “I can’t believe that Brittany sank that low.” A pause. “Not that I’m not saying it was her fault that she got murdered.”
“That’s good.”
The dealer reddened, looked down. “You’re sure? That it’s actually … her?”
Poe sipped his wretched java, didn’t respond right away. He drummed his fingers against the cup. Actually that was a good question. Newel had been found nude, without a purse, and half her face had been mangled. But the other half was identifiable as the woman in Havana’s posed portfolio photographs.
Poe said, “We’ve had some preliminary identification—”
“So you’re not sure?”
“We’re proceeding as if it is Brittany Newel.” Poe put down his cup. “You seem very angry at her.”
Minors’s face tightened, frowning lips turning into lines.
“Why do you say that? I haven’t seen her in months.”
Poe took out a notebook. “I’m angry at people I haven’t seen in years. Was the breakup amicable?”
“I was happy about it.”
“Why’d you two break up?”
“She was out of control.”
“Drugs?”
“What else?”
“How long had she been blowing crystal?”
“Long enough for me to say good-bye.”
“When you two met, was she using?”
Minors sank down on a chair, drooped like a water-starved plant. “Nothing heavy.”
“Pot?”
“Occasionally.”
“Why’d she turn to a heavier case load?”
“Who knows?” Minors muttered. “It’s this damn city. Takes over your life.”
Poe said, “She was turning tricks.”
Minors muttered, “Case in point.”
“Is that why you beat her up?”
Minors blushed brightly. “I didn’t beat her up—”
“You smacked her around, Trent. Save us both some energy and don’t play Mr. Who Me?, all right?”
“So I got pissed a couple times—”
“A couple of times?” With dubious eyes, Poe gave him a look. “Who was really out of control?”
Minors blurted, “I didn’t give a flying fuck about her whoring! Okay?”
Poe licked his lips, tapped his pen against his notebook. “Why not?”
Quietly, Minors said, “’Cause we had this understanding.”
“What kind of understanding?”
The dealer got anxious. “Just that we didn’t butt into each other’s business.”
“Each other’s business,” Poe repeated. “Do you mean personal or professional business?”
“Both.”
“So her whoring was okay because it brought in money?”
“It was her thing, Sergeant!” Minors exploded. “Her business, her money. I didn’t have a thing to do with it. I wasn’t her pimp, okay?”
“But you knew about it.”
Minors was quiet.
“If you had this understanding about her whoring, Trent, why did you toss her?”
“Who told you I hit her?”
Poe