The first thought that went through Crystal’s mind was the eighty dollars Krista had hidden from R. T. The eighty dollars Crystal had sworn she would never touch. It was the money Krista had saved to get out of Chicago for good. Her emergency fund. And it was Crystal’s now, and she could use it to buy four rocks . . . no, three rocks and a good breakfast and . . .
At that point she burst into tears. The three strangers probably thought she was crying for her dead friend, but she wasn’t. She was crying for herself.
The agent and the detective became restless. The hell with them both. But the woman, Zoe, crouched to look into Crystal’s eyes. Her intense gaze mesmerized Crystal, whose sobbing slowly faded into a whimper.
“I’m sorry for your friend,” Zoe said. “It was a man who did it.”
Crystal nodded. Of course it was.
“We’re looking for him,” Zoe said. “We want to catch him before he hurts anyone else, and we could really use your help. But I need you to focus. Can you focus, Crystal?”
Maybe the woman was from social services. She definitely reminded Crystal of a social worker she’d met once. She had the same look in her eyes, like she wanted to help but also knew there was no help for someone like Crystal. There was no pity there, no sadness or disgust. There was understanding.
“Sure.” Crystal sniffed.
“Was Krista doing crack too?” Zoe asked.
Bam. The woman didn’t beat around the bush. Crystal didn’t ask her how she knew. Crack left its marks—though it wasn’t always obvious. Some were better at hiding it, but Crystal sure wasn’t.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Not as much as I do.”
“What was Krista like?”
“She was . . . kind. Some of the whores on the street, they can get real mean, you know? But Krista was never like that. And she got along with almost everyone. Even most of the mean ones.”
And R. T. didn’t beat her as much as he beats me.
“Did Krista have a ring?”
“A what?” Crystal asked.
“A silver ring. With a small ruby. It might have been fake.”
Crystal snorted. “She would have pawned it a long time ago if she did. Or someone would have taken it.”
“She probably got it very recently.”
“No ring,” Crystal said.
“How did Krista usually dress?” Zoe asked.
“You ask the weirdest questions, lady. She dressed like a crack whore.”
“Did she own a long-sleeved yellow shirt or a brown skirt?”
“She would never wear a yellow shirt,” Crystal said. “She always said yellow wasn’t her color. And she didn’t own a brown skirt.”
“Okay.” Zoe nodded. “Lieutenant Martinez? Do you want to ask any additional questions? Or maybe you, Agent?” She said agent like people usually said asshole. What was up with these two?
“Yes,” Martinez said. “Who sells you the crack?”
“I want to help, but I’m not telling you that.”
“Even if it was the same man who killed her?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Can you tell us about the last time you saw her?” Agent Gray said.
“We were working in the street, and I went into the alley with a john,” Crystal said. “When I came back, she was gone.”
“Did anyone see who she went with?”
“No.”
“Did you see any suspicious people that night?”
She snorted. “The places I work in, everybody’s suspicious.”
“Anyone that stood out?”
“Yeah,” she suddenly recalled. “There was this really creepy dude in a banged-up car. Tried to get a bunch of us to go with him, but no one would.”
“How did he look?” Tatum asked.
“Tats all over him. Face, arms, neck,” Crystal said, thinking back to that night. “And he talked funny. Like, a real high voice.”
“Do you know the type of car?” Martinez asked.
“I don’t know. But it was blue. The color was peeling off.”
“Did he try to get Krista to come with him?” Agent Gray asked.
“Yeah, but she’d never get into a ride like that.”
“Where were you working that night?” the agent continued.
“Next to Brighton Park. We have a street corner there.”
“Can you show me where it is exactly?” Martinez asked.
Crystal hesitated. That corner was her prime spot—she got the best customers there. If she showed it to him, he’d know where to send vice.
As if it were some big secret. Everyone knew where the whores of Brighton Park worked.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER 15
His house felt . . . empty.
This breakup had been the toughest for him so far. He knew it had been the right thing to do, but he hadn’t been prepared for the loneliness that followed. There was something wholesome about waking up in bed with the woman you loved, watching her lie there—her eyes closed, her face innocent, her body warm . . .
Well, maybe not warm.
It had been reassuring, leaving home and knowing that when he returned, she’d be waiting there for him. Always there, right where he left her. Completely predictable. She had been someone he could trust.
But frankly, if the spark was gone, there was no point in postponing the inevitable, right?
The next woman would be the real thing. He would be wary, choose more carefully. Though the last one had been charming and full of life, there had been a certain . . . trashiness in her. Their relationship had saved her from a slippery slope of drug abuse; he had no doubt about it. He’d always know it, and she’d always know it. Perhaps that had been the real problem that had led to their breaking up. That and the mediocre job he had done when embalming her, of course.
No, the next time would be better. He would choose better, and he would do a better job with her. She’d be perfect.
Should he look for one tonight? The relationship had only ended the night before. And he was exhausted after his sleepless night, driving her to the beach and carrying her to where she wanted to be.
For a moment that night, he had thought it might all end.
There was another couple there, snuggling on the beach. He hadn’t noticed them in the darkness, or he would have kept going, taken her to a different location. He was dragging her, her heels occasionally touching the sandy ground. He breathed hard, cursing himself for not parking closer. Once or twice he almost decided that he was far enough. But deep inside, he knew she’d want to be close to the water, watching the lake’s small waves lapping at the shore. He had almost reached his destination when the couple stood up, apparently deciding it was time to go home.
He spotted their double silhouette against the background of the moonlit water, less than twenty feet away and walking in his direction. He had only seconds. His hand slid to the knife in his pocket, heart beating hard.
He quickly devised a plan. He’d slit the man’s throat first. The woman would be easier to deal with. Maybe he could take her home and . . .
But it was too risky, and he didn’t want to drop his girl. Instead, he straightened her, put his arm around her waist, leaned his head against hers. She stood, her face buried in her hands. The couple would see what they truly were: a man consoling a heartbroken woman.
The couple went by, not sparing him a second glance, entranced with each other. He knew how it felt. It was a wonderful thing to be in love.
He dragged her on, helped her down to the sand. He was sorry he hadn’t brought her a small towel to sit on. He carefully adjusted the skirt that had slightly twisted itself on the way.
Finally satisfied, he bid her farewell, not wanting to drag this out too much, and left.
And now he missed her. Or at least he missed her presence in his home.
He needed to fill the void. Next time would be different. He would find the right one.
He would start searching tomorrow.
CHAPTER 16
Maynard, Massachusetts, Thursday, October 23, 1997
Zoe’s parents were whispering to each other again. This happened almost every day now. They had always been a family that was too loud, but now they had turned into a family of hushed conversations, of strained silences, of silent weeping.