asked.
“How ’bout Myra’s?” Jensen suggested.
“Okay. Myra’s at ten.” Poe checked his watch. “That should give you two about five hours of shut-eye.”
“Sounds good,” Patricia said.
“Fine with me,” Jensen added.
Poe cut the mike, drove to Minors’s address. The neighborhood was a mixture of small one-story houses and low-rise apartments. To Poe, even in the dark, it looked more than familiar. He had been here before, recognizing landmarks down to the apartment with the wrought-iron horsehead fence.
Then he realized he was about five minutes from Honey’s. He had entered the area from the north instead of the south. He thought a moment about Ruki’s keeping him at arm’s length.
He depressed the accelerator, did a couple of screeching right turns, then parked in front of Honey’s building.
Well, what does Ruki expect of me?
Nothing. That’s the problem.
The call girl wasn’t pleased to be awakened. Her hair was messy, eyes still heavy from sleep. She wore a bulky terry robe and had bunny slippers on her feet.
Her greeting to him: “Go away.”
Poe put his foot in the door before she could close it. “Please?”
“Why don’t you go bother Rukmani?”
“I would except she’s working.”
“So? One of the slabs is bound to be empty.”
Poe kneed his way inside. “You are one sick woman.”
A brush of pecan hair from midnight-blue eyes. “You know what time it is?”
“Four-fifteen.”
“Big night, Rom?”
Hands in pockets, Poe bounced on his feet, stared at the walls decorated with hundred-year-old Audubon prints. “Professionally, yes.”
Honey shut the door. “Professionally as in playing? Or professionally as in cop?”
“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
