“He had a woman with him.”
“So?”
“You think I should have plugged her, too? Or left her behind as a witness?”
“You were wearing a ski mask. She wouldn’t have recognized you. It would have been written off as a burglary gone bad.”
“I don’t leave loose ends like that. And I don’t kill women. Nuh-uh. You didn’t say anything about a woman.”
“Christ, do I have to do everything myself? You realize if I go down, so do you. Hudson Vale got a good look at Jazz. If he finds her before we do, it’s all over. She’ll sell us out like day-old fish. It will all come out—do you understand me? We’ll all go down.”
“We’ll get him another day.”
“Time’s running out.” The man paused, thinking hard. “You know, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked a boy to do a man’s job.”
“Oh, go screw yourself. You think it’s so goddamned easy to kill someone, you do it.”
The man hung up. It was remarkably easy to kill someone. Establish an unshakable alibi. Pay in cash. Leave no evidence behind, including no body.
His muscleman had outlived his usefulness. He was going to have to take care of him. Tonight, before the idiot got drunk and blathered to someone what he’d been up to. Then he’d take care of the others. He’d find Jazz and finish her off. Himself.
* * *
ELIZABETH FELT AWFUL for the teenage girl huddled in her office. Tonda Pickens was in a terrible situation, no doubt about it.
“If Jackson finds out I’m pregnant,” she said tearfully, “he’ll kill me. He will.”
The fear was not ungrounded. When a woman was pregnant, she was much more likely to become the victim of violence from the very person who was supposed to love and protect her. Plus, in Tonda’s case, her boyfriend-slash-pimp had hit her before.
“What about going home to your mother?” Elizabeth asked. “You haven’t talked to her in a while. Maybe the fact you’re having her grandchild would improve her attitude.”
“Hah, you kidding? This is what she did to me for just kissing a boy.” She lifted her hair off one side of her face, revealing a jagged scar. “I can’t even imagine what she’d do if she found out Jackson and me...” She looked out the window, swallowing convulsively. “I have to get rid of it. I got no choice.”
“Yes, you do have a choice.” Elizabeth wouldn’t counsel a nineteen-year-old prostitute to have a baby and keep it. But neither would she advise her to “get rid of it.” Her job was to lay out all the options and let the girl make her own decision. It was the only way, because Tonda was the one who had to live with the physical and emotional consequences. “You do not have to go back to Jackson or your mother. There are shelters for women in your situation. Safe havens.”
“If you’re talking about one of those homes for unwed mothers where they make you pray and then make you give up the baby for adoption, no way. I won’t carry a baby nine months and give it away. I’ve seen girls do that. It racks ’em up bad.”
Elizabeth had, indeed, been thinking about a place similar to what Tonda described. It was a godsend for some girls, but not suitable for everyone.
“There are a number of places you could go. We could look into them together, find the one that suits you.”
“What if I wanted...to keep the baby?” Tonda asked cautiously.
“If that’s what you want to do, you have that right. No one can make you give it up. I won’t lie to you—it won’t be easy. If you want to keep the baby, you’ll have to find some way to provide for it and yourself. Jackson would be legally obligated to pay child support, but I’m guessing that forcing him to do that would be a challenge?”
“I’d rather not even tell him.”
Elizabeth would rather she didn’t, either. What kind of father figure would a pimp be?
“I shoulda been more careful.”
“You’re not the first person to make a mistake, or the last. It happens. The thing to focus on now is making good decisions going forward.”
Tonda placed a hand on her abdomen. “I know I said I wouldn’t go for adoption, but what if I changed my mind? Could I find a good home for the baby?”
“We can certainly try. If you do a private adoption, you get to approve the adoptive parents. Just say the word, and I’ll get you into a women’s shelter—a temporary place until we can figure something out. But you don’t have to go back to Jackson.”
Tonda shook her head. “No. I’m not showing yet. Jackson won’t know. I have to think. Maybe I’ll call Mama. Give her some time to get used to the idea before I see her in person.”
Elizabeth hated to let Tonda go home to her unhealthy situation. If she was still prostituting herself, she risked illness not just for herself, but the baby. But they’d discussed that already. Tonda wouldn’t be pushed into anything—she had to make the decision herself.
“Just remember one thing, Tonda. No one has the right to hit you. Whether it’s Jackson or your mother or a customer, if tempers start to flare, get out. Call the police. Call someone. Don’t just think you have to put up with it because you have no choice. There are always choices.”
Tonda nodded. “Thanks. I won’t let anybody hit me, don’t worry. I have more to worry about than just myself now.”
That was a mature attitude, and Elizabeth was glad to see it. She walked Tonda to the door of the clinic. “You take care, Tonda.”
“I will. Thank you, Ms. Downey.” She gave Elizabeth a quick hug—something she’d never done before. The gesture warmed Elizabeth’s heart. Tonda shouldered her backpack, which had a picture of a kitten on it, and pushed the door open.
Although Elizabeth tried to maintain a professional distance from her clients, she’d always had a soft spot in her heart for Tonda, who’d been coming to the clinic for almost a year now.
As the door closed behind Tonda, Elizabeth turned. That was when she saw two people standing in the lobby, watching her. The clinic manager, Gloria Kirby, stood awkwardly beside them. She motioned for Elizabeth to join them.
“Elizabeth,” Gloria said, “these are detectives with the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department. They’d like a word with you.”
What? “Oh, no, did something happen to one of my clients?”
The two cops regarded her gravely. One of them was a fortyish man, tall, thin and pale with a shaved head. The other was a humorless-looking Hispanic woman, who could have been twenty-five or forty-five, with her hair pulled back in a severe knot.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” the man said.
“Sure.” She led them to her office, which was hardly more than a glorified closet, furnished with a battered wooden desk, an ancient metal file cabinet and two mismatched armchairs. She thought about offering them refreshments. She kept a cooler with water and soft drinks behind her desk and a stash of peanut-butter crackers in a bottom drawer. Often her clients arrived hungry.
But these two cops didn’t look as if they wanted to eat or drink. She sat down behind her desk, and each of them took a chair.
“What can I help you with?” she asked, her stomach tying itself into knots.
They both looked uneasy. “I’m Detective Sanchez,” the woman said, “and this is Detective Knightly.”
“Ms. Downey,” Knightly said, smoothly taking over, “can you tell us where you were Saturday night?”
This