Bones

CHAPTER 14

So much for Duchesne as a factor,” said Moe Reed as we waited for the woman to return from the bathroom.

He and Milo and I sat in an orange plastic booth in a chicken-and-pancakes joint on Aviation near Century. The restaurant smelled of burnt feathers and hot fat. Jumbo-jet thunder shook the room at random intervals, thrumming cloudy glass and Z-Brick and threatening to shake asbestos loose from the goose-bump ceiling.

Three coffee cups in front of us, untouched brown surfaces skimmed with rainbow oil slick. The woman had ordered extra-sweet, extra-crisp thighs and wings, a double plate of cinnamon waffles, and a jumbo orange soda. She’d finished one plate of chicken, asked for another, made her way through most of the breading before needing “a woman break.”

Her name was Sondra Cindy Jackson and she called herself Sin. Twenty-three-year-old black female, pretty face, wounded eyes, huge blue talon-nails, half of them inlaid with rhinestones. Her teeth were straight but her left incisor was a gold cap. A complex cornrow tested the boundaries of string theory.

She was the eighteenth prostitute Moe Reed had talked to in two days of canvassing the airport hot zone, and the first who was sure she knew the identity of Jane Doe Three.

Built like a dancer, her appetite was astonishing. So far she’d flirted, shoveled food down her gullet, played coy.

Reed was antsy. Milo emitted an odd Buddhic calm.

Over the same forty-eight hours, he’d contended with a continuing trickle of worthless tips, learned nothing more about Big Laura Chenoweth, failed to locate Sheralyn Dawkins’s family anywhere in San Diego, Orange, or L.A. County. That kind of fun often erodes his patience but sometimes it works the other way.

Reed eyed the ladies’ room. Our booth was positioned so Sin couldn’t leave without passing directly in front of us.

“When she gets back, I’ll press her.”

Milo said, “Sure. Or you can let it play out a bit longer.”

The young detective had switched from jacket and tie to a gray polo shirt bisected by a wide red stripe, fresh blue jeans, snowy white Nikes. His eyes were clear, his ruddy face shaved glossy. Side-of-beef pectorals and massive shoulders strained the shirt.

Aiming to blend in, but he might as well have worn the uniform.

Sondra Cindy Jackson had known what he was right away. Sixty dollars and the promise of dinner had induced her to get into the Camaro.

Milo said, “Be sure to put in for reimbursement.”

Reed said, “Eventually.”

“I’m back!” came the cheery announcement.

Sin’s pink velvet bra and white lace hot pants showed off her skin tone. Slender girl except for breasts enhanced to cartoon proportions. Somehow, she’d found the money.

“Welcome back,” said Milo. “Bon appétit.”

She flashed a gold smile, slid into the booth, got to work on the second plate of chicken.

Four swallows later, she said, “Y’all are so quiet.”

“Waiting for you,” said Reed.

“To do what?” Batting her lashes.

Reed blinked.

Milo said, “To take the lead.”

“About… oh, yeah, Mantooth.”

Reed said, “Mantooth?”

“That’s her name, ’Tective Reed.”

“Mantooth.”

“Yup.”

Reed opened his pad. “That a first name?”

“Last name,” said Sin. “Dolores Mantooth but we jes’ called her Mantooth because it was a good one for her.” Wink wink.

Reed stared at her.

“Tooth. Chew. Like that song?” said Sin. “We chewin’ on it… what? Y’all don’t listen to the blues?”

Milo said, “Musta missed that one.”

“ ‘We chewin’ on it all day long.’ ”

I said, “Bonnie Raitt.”

“Yeah,” said Sin. “Nice dirty song. That was Mantooth. She had a mouth.”

Reed said, “Mouth as in…”

Sin said, “Huh?”

Milo said, “Who was her pimp?”

“Jerome.”

“Jerome who?”

“Jerome Jerome,” said Sin. “I’m not kidding, same first name and last name. I’m not claiming that’s what his momma called him but that’s what he was called. Jerome Jerome. Don’t go asking for him. Dead.”

“How’d he get dead?”

“O.D.” Lifting a wing, she held it daintily between two fingers, nibbled voraciously to the bone.

“When?” said Reed.

Shrug. “I just heard he was dead.”

“From an O.D.”

“What else?”

“You assumed he O.D.’d.”

Sin’s look was full of pity. “ ’Tective Reed, ’Tective Reed. Jerome was bagging all day, then he got dead. That sound to you like old age?”

Milo said, “Dolores never worked for Joe Otto Duchesne.”

“No way. Joe Otto works black, never looks back.”

“Tell us about Dolores.”

Sin waved a chicken bone. “Old. White. Ugly.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Hmm… a year ago?”

“How old is old?”

“A hundred,” said Sin, laughing. “Maybe a hundred fifty, she looked real used.”

Peach-flavored ice cream disappeared between her lips. No new information made the reverse trip. Reed gave her his card and she looked at it as if it were an exotic insect.

After she left the restaurant, we walked to the parking lot and watched her sway south on Aviation. Reed’s Camaro had no computer so Milo had brought a newer Chevy sedan from the staff lot that was fully equipped.

No Dolores or Delores Mantooth in the system. A bit of LAPD Scrabble finally pulled up her I.D.

DeMaura Jean Montouthe. Blond and green, five five, one forty, DOB fifty-one years ago, thirty years of low-level arrests.

No mention of tooth anomalies but LAPD wasn’t interested in the finer points of dentition.

Milo called Vice and had the name of her pimp within seconds.

Jerome Lamar McReynolds. The crypt confirmed his death fourteen months ago. Heroin-cocaine overdose, COD determination based on track marks and blood work, no autopsy.

“Guy speedballs,” said Milo, “DeMaura’s freelancing, vulnerable. Bad guy senses it, moves in.”

“Perfect for some rich predators,” said Reed, massaging a swelling biceps.

“The key,” said Milo, “is to turn women into prey.”