February 5, 2008
A man dressed entirely in black, carrying a shoulder bag, fussed with his camera before taking a shot. His subject barely acknowledged him, even though at times he stood close enough to touch her—too wrapped up in the low-grade heroin she was slamming.
When Santos rolled up in his unmarked car, she packed up her “works” and scurried down the alley as fast as her wrecked body could move. The man in black turned toward his car. He got out, holding a large, coffee-table-sized book, and flashed his badge.
“Last time I checked, officer, art wasn’t a crime.”
“Tell that to Thomas Mann.”
“A cultured cop. I’m floored.”
“Don’t be. Some of us even go to the opera.”
“You?”
“Me? Heck no. But I like your stuff. I dig the realism.”
“That one of mine?”
“It is. Urban Exile.” He held up the weighty tome.
“Well, at least you have taste. So what can I do for you, officer… uh…”
“Detective,” he said. “Well, for starters, how about an autograph?”
***
“My place is a shambles, but my files are in order. Three projects on the go, and I still can’t afford an assistant. What I need is one of those genius grants.” They were standing inside a cramped studio office, where an old air conditioner rattled at the window, and one wall was covered entirely by black-and-white portraits of women—street workers caught in the raw moments of their lives.
He paused, pulling a small digital recorder from his coat pocket and clicking it on with a soft beep that cut through the hum. “Mind if I record this? Department policy—keeps us both honest.”
The photographer shrugged, hardly glancing at the device. “Here we are.” He took out a file, closed the cabinet, and handed it over.
The detective flipped through it, his free hand jotting shorthand in a battered notebook. “These records are a cop’s wet dream. You’ve got identifying features, scars, tattoos. Why so detailed?”
“What they put their bodies through—these girls age fast. The whole idea of the series was to follow them for three years, to document the decay. All that stuff just made it easier for me to track them down. It’s a technique I picked up watching a nature show on wolves, believe it or not.”
He took a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to the man in black, who opened it and extracted an eight-by-ten photograph. “Do you know this girl?”
“Yeah. She was one of my subjects.”
“Her name’s Sons-ee-ah-ray Naiche. Goes by the name of Sami.”
“No, not Sami. Sunny, as in Sunshine.” The photographer retrieved another folder from the cabinet and offered it to him. “I photographed Sunny dozens of times when she was still new to the game. She was what they called on the street an FOB, fresh off the bus—one of the younger ones just starting out, still carrying that na?ve spark before the streets grind it away.”
“Frankly, I wouldn’t know much about that world.”
“Yeah, right. Let me guess, Detective—you’re more of a MILF man.”
“Actually, I’m more of a personality guy. But that’s neither here nor there.”
“Well, regardless, girls like her could command top dollar on the streets and formed their own little subculture. Which is why I spent considerable time documenting them—their stories, their decline, the way the life ages them fast.”
“So you knew Sami pretty well?”
“I did. I was friends with all of them. You can’t do this kind of artwork if your subject doesn’t trust you—it’s just too intimate.”
“No judgment, just need the full picture. Did you have… relations with Sami?”
“Relations? You mean did I fuck her?”
“Did you?”
“No, fuck no!”
“What about the others?”
The man in black bristled. “Do I look suicidal to you? These girls are deep into drugs, sharing needles, high-risk everything. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole wrapped in three layers of latex. They were paid models. Period!”
Agitated, the photographer sat at his desk. Taking a breath, trying not to sound increasingly defensive, he changed his tone. “Everything I do, I do above board. Legally. Take a look at that file—you’ll find a release form. I have all the girls sign them.”
He perused the form, noticing the handwriting at the bottom. “I’d like to borrow this for the case, if it’s all right with you?”
“Go ahead, but I want it back.”
“Of course. I’ll make photocopies and return the originals in forty-eight hours.” He reached into his briefcase, took out a printed form, and slid it across the photographer’s desk. “Would you mind signing this?” The man in black gave the receipt a once-over, then signed. From his coat pocket, he pulled out a clear evidence bag, slipped the folder inside, and labeled it with a Sharpie.
In his field notebook, he quickly jotted: 14:32 hrs: Folder of photos received voluntarily from Lazlo Istvan, no duress observed. Bag sealed by Det. Santos #4782. Promise to return originals post-photocopy.
“Seriously, I think I got an idea for another series,” the photographer quipped. “It’ll all be about cops.”
“Glad I could inspire you.” The man in black picked up his camera and aimed it at him.
“Smile, Detective. You’re going to be my muse.” He snapped a couple of shots.
Not the least bit amused, he kept a professional demeanor, donned nitrile gloves, then used a digital camera to photograph the pertinent pages while muttering notes into the recorder about the chain of custody. Afterward, he scrutinized Sami’s release form.
“I do edgy work—admittedly. What I don’t do is cross legal lines. That’s a photocopy of her driver’s license and birth certificate. She presented as twenty-one. I checked.”
“Records show she was eighteen at the time these photographs were taken, and the identifying papers she gave you were… bogus.” He produced Sami’s birth certificate. Nonplussed, the photographer examined it.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Detective. She lied to me. I’ve learned my lesson: never trust a whore.” The man in black closed his eyes, suddenly looking remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. These girls—Sunny, the others—they’re human beings, just trying to survive in a shitty world. And my art, well, I’m just the messenger boy.”
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“Unfortunately, Sami didn’t make it.”
“I figured so, or why would you be giving me the third degree?”
“Third degree?” Now he appeared contrite. “I’m just trying to get justice for her.”
The man in black’s demeanor softened.
“Okay, what happened to her? Don’t spare me the gruesome details.” He reached into his briefcase for another manila envelope.
“Normally, I wouldn’t show this, but considering the nature of your work and your familiarity with their world.” He laid the envelope on the photographer’s desk. “Sami was found deceased at Hillside Park about a month ago; those are her autopsy photos, along with the autopsy photos of two other victims.” The detective spread the photos on the desk under his hand, allowing the man in black only a cursory viewing. “Girls we believe to have the same demographic profile: young women aged 18–25, Asian or Native American descent.”
If the man in black appeared shocked, it didn’t show. Instead, he noted a look of intrigue, of fascination. Was the photographer getting off on this shit? “You mind if I pin them up on the board?” Like trophies, he thought.
“Sorry, no can do.” He quickly stuffed the photos back in the envelope. “It’s a chain of custody thing, evidence tampering, et cetera.” The man looked disappointed.
“Okay, okay, it’s just that I think I could help you. Two of the girls haven’t been identified, right?”
“No. Just nothing there to work with—no ink, no scars.”
“I’ve got an exceptionally keen eye, Detective, it’s what I do. I might be able to identify them.”
“You’d have to sign a photo-array consent form—standard for witnesses helping with IDs.”
“Where do I sign?”
“And you’d have to do it at division, under supervision.”
“Let’s go. It’ll be fun… I mean, interesting.”
“Research for your next series?”
“Yeah, exactly.” The man in black rose, grabbed his black jean jacket off the back of his chair, and put it on. “Listen, Detective, I keep an emotional distance from my subjects, no different from a doctor or a scientist, but I’m not completely heartless. Whatever stupid life choices those girls made, they didn’t deserve that.” He pointed at the manila envelope. “The only person who deserves that fate is the twisted fuck who did it.”
“No arguments from me.”
He yanked out his tan handheld XTS2500 from his belt, thumbing the PTT: “Dispatch, Det. Santos—requesting a slot at Division for witness photo review, ETA 1500.”
He showed the man in black one of Sami’s photos. She looked relatively happy, even laughing in the shot. “When was this taken?” The photographer eyed it.
“A couple of months ago. That’s the last shot I took of her—the last in the series.”
“November.” He made a note of it. “And have you seen her since then?”
“I have, a few times.”
“You remember the last time?”
“Yeah, mid-December, sometime around then.”
“Where?”
“At her usual spot. The Aristocrat.”
“The Aristocrat cafe on Broadway?”
“The one and only. It’s the only decent place to get a bite to eat at four in the morning. A lot of the girls hang out there—it’s the Schwab’s of the netherworld.”
***
February 6, 2008
She was at a booth taking notes, seated across from a waitress—name tag reading “Lola”—a young Latina woman with a decidedly Goth look: ink running up her cherubic arms, piercings, ruby-red lips. She flipped open her notebook, the homicide unit’s standard issue with the case number stamped on the cover—Sami’s face staring back from the attached Polaroid. “Mind if I record this? Just to make sure I get every detail right.” Lola nodded, eyeing the device as it might bite.
“Yeah, I remember the last time I saw her,” Lola said, with a mild barrio accent. “New Year’s Eve. Hard to forget that night.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that’s the night a bunch of people came in here all dolled up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Men in tuxes with tails, women in sequin gowns, gold lamé—I mean, really gorgeous vintage stuff. And they looked really out of place, really west-side, if you know what I mean. What they were doing downtown at that time of night is beyond me. Loco, like asking to be jacked.”
“They were on a treasure hunt!” shouted an elderly man from another booth. She looked his way, scanning the room for exits out of habit before jotting his booth number and a quick sketch—white male, 70s, cabbie cap—then murmuring into her radio: “Dispatch, patch me to canvass team. Got a potential wit at The Aristocrat.”
“What is that?”
“Treasure hunt! Like the movie My Man Godfrey, not the lousy remake—the original! One of the ladies offered me a thousand dollars to go back with them to butler!”
“What?” Lola said.
“Swear on a stack of Bibles. Told her to take a flying hike!”
“Sir,” she said, “I appreciate your help, but right now I’m in the middle of an interview.”
“Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“And I hear you. I’d really appreciate it if you stuck around so one of my colleagues could interview you later.”
“Sure thing. I got nowhere to go.”
“Great.” The older man turned around and went back to his meal. She looked out at Lola, who, despite the seriousness of things, was trying not to laugh.
“Okay, back to Sami. Tell me everything you can about the last time you saw her.”
“Sure, well, she had her usual breakfast.”
“And that was?”
“French fries with gravy and a chocolate shake.”
“Breakfast of champions.”
“Yeah, I know. At least she eats.”
“Okay, what then?”
“Well, she paid the bill, and then headed out the door. And when she stepped outside, one of those exotic sports cars pulled up. She got in, and that’s the last I saw of her.”
“You see the driver?”
“No.”
“The plates?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, around what time was this?”
“About three, four in the morning. Not exactly sure.”
“So this exotic car—you remember the color, the make?”
“The color, sure—the color of my lipstick. The make? No way. I don’t know anything about cars. Jorge might be able to help you; he saw it too. He’s a real gearhead.”
“Okay, we’ll ask him. For now, just describe it. Tell me what it looked like.”
“Well, it was modern, streamlined, really low to the ground, and the doors didn’t open like normal doors.”
“No? What’d they open like?”
“Like this.” She made a gesture with her hands, bringing her thumbs together, lifting her fingers. “Like wings.”
“Scissor doors, got it—like a Lambo or Bugatti? Any chance you saw the driver’s face, or how Sami acted getting in? Cozy, or like she was in a hurry?”
Lola shrugged. “She was smiling when she got in, like she was going on a date. Damn, I’d be happy getting picked up by one of those, what a sick ride.”
***
Santos followed the manager through the kitchen, trying not to get wet as they passed the dishwasher, who treated his job like a vendetta, cursing in Spanish at the soaking pots and pans. The manager pushed aside a mop bucket and opened the supply closet, where a filing cabinet was stored among the rags, linens, and cleaning supplies.
“Anything over a month, I keep in here.” The manager opened the cabinet. “New Year’s Eve, you say?”
“Well, actually later, around three, four A.M.”
“Okay.” The manager pulled out a bundle of guest slips, held together by a rubber band, and offered them to him. “Got to be in there.”
In the kitchen, he donned nitrile gloves and spread the slips out on an aluminum table—the manager watching with curiosity.
“The oldest ones are on the bottom.”
“Roger that.” Starting from the bottom of the bundle, he laid them out in order by date.
“You mind? I can spot Lola’s handwriting a mile away.”
“Sure, go ahead.” The manager flipped through the orders rapidly, pulling one out in a matter of seconds.
“That’s got to be it.” He picked up the guest slip and examined it. Jan 1, 2008, 3:47 A.M. was written in the header, and the initials L.D.—Lola Diaz. The order itself was penned in a shorthand that the detective found incoherent. He pointed to it with a gloved finger.
“What does that mean?” The manager glanced at it quickly.
“A large order of French fries with gravy, and a medium chocolate shake.”
“And bingo was his name. I’m going to need this as evidence, all right by you?”
“If it’ll help.”
***
“The old coot’s a hoot. Treasure hunt? People still do that kind of thing?”
She shrugged. They were heading back to Homicide, with her behind the wheel and Santos riding shotgun. “Who knows? Whatever it was, they had nothing to do with Sami’s death. But the Little Red Corvette?”
“Corvette?”
“Just an expression, Santos. Y’know, the Prince song?”
“Before my time, partner.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot—you’re more a Taylor Swift man.”
“Rihanna more like.” They were stopped at a red light, Santos eyeing the Toyota Camry beside them. “How many red Lamborghini Diablos do you figure would be cruising around downtown on New Year’s Eve at four in the morning?”
“In this city? Two or three at the most.”
“Narrows our search down by quite a bit. I’ll put in an Evidence Request to LADOT. Maybe we’ll get lucky. But if I were a serial killer, a supercar would be my last choice. Not exactly flying under the radar.”
“No, doesn’t fit the M.O. at all.”
“I’m more interested in the guy the cook mentioned.”
“What guy?”
“He said there’s a guy who used to come around, a regular—one ugly motherfucking dude—who used to scope out the girls. Said he looked like the dude from The Phantom of the Opera, with the build of a linebacker, end quote.”
“Which one, the original or the remake?”
“Remake. I googled it. I’m guessing the silent 1925 Lon Chaney version. The other two, they were still pretty good-looking dudes—with the half-mask on, women would still do them.”
“You get the dude’s name?”
“No. Loner type, didn’t talk to anyone except to order his food. But he was in the diner frequently. He stopped coming around about the time the girls started getting chopped up.”
“Interesting. Very.” But not enough to shift her off track. “My Man Godfrey, Phantom of the Opera—funny how everyone in this town references movies.”
“Back in the day, The Aristocrat used to be a hangout for starlets and movie wannabes, so kind of makes sense.”
“Yeah. At least with actors there’s a face and physical characteristics. The next generation of dicks will have emoticons to deal with…”
“That and YouTube stars.”
“There’s such a thing?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Okay, as interesting as this Lon Chaney dude is, my money’s on the Diablo. We need to find that car.”
“Roger that.”
* Prostitution/survival sex work and the exploitation of vulnerable young women (including one who was 18 at the time)
* Graphic discussion and viewing of murder victims, autopsy photographs, and descriptions of physical decay and death
* Strong profanity, crude sexual language, and slurs (including repeated use of “whore”)
* Themes of deception about age, poverty, addiction, and violence against women of color (Native American and Asian descent)
* Police handling of sensitive evidence and chain-of-custody procedures
After this chapter, who is giving you the strongest “this might be the killer” vibes?
