Page 9 of Ace of Spades
“Oh, um, Liberty City. Nate said one of his customers recognized her when they showed our artist rendering on TV. Her working name was Peaches.”
“Shouldn’t take us long to ID her, then.”
She hoped not. She was ready for a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good book that would take her mind off their victims. They were women who’d had no one to care about them, but Taylor did. Her empathy came from having a mother who’d been a prostitute, from having grown up with other prostitutes babysitting her when her mom was working, and watching women she’d loved die because of the needle they’d stuck in their veins one too many times.
The only person who knew the depths of her sorrow was Nate. He understood why she was determined to catch the murderer. It was a miracle that she hadn’t ended up on the streets herself, and she probably would have if not for Rosie.
Rosita Manuela had taken in that frightened six-year-old girl after her mother had died. Overlooked by social services—fortunately, in Taylor’s opinion—Rosie had carted Taylor home with her after finding her crying over her mother’s body.
At least, that was what Rosie had told her. Taylor didn’t remember a thing from that night. But Rosie had always been evasive about exactly what had happened, still was, and it wasn’t until Taylor had joined the FBI and had searched for and found a police report that she’d learned her mother had been killed by one of her johns.
“Let’s see if we can get a name and get back to the car while it still has wheels,” Josh said, pulling to a stop at the corner their victim had worked.
Her trip down memory lane interrupted, Taylor glanced around, seeing the hostile stares of young men and women who didn’t have a chance for a better life. She wished each one of them could have a Rosie in their life. Of course, she and Josh were made as cops right away, so hopefully that would lend a little protection to the car.
“Keep an eye on the man in the red T-shirt, leaning against the wall. He’s carrying.”
Josh’s gaze scanned the group. “Probably not the only one.”
When they exited the car, Red T-shirt took off, followed by several of his friends. One girl and a few others held their ground; the girl’s eyes daring them to mess with her. Taylor stepped up to her, showing her badge.
“We’re not after anyone here, okay? Just want to show you a picture, see if you can give us a name.”
The girl smirked. “We ain’t helping no pigs.”
“And I don’t expect you to, but this woman is from around here.” She held out the artist rendering. “She went by Peaches.” Taylor saw recognition in the girl’s eyes.
“What she done?” a boy standing behind the girl said.
“She was killed. We’d like to let her family know, that’s all. Do you know her name?”
He exchanged a glance with the girl, as if asking permission to tell them. At her nod, he said, “Linda Harding. Showed up around here ’bout two months ago.” He pointed to an abandoned building across the street. “Slept there most nights.” With that said, the boy turned and walked away, the remaining kids trailing after him.
Taylor stood on the sidewalk next to Josh, both of them eyeing the building. “I so don’t want to go in there,” she said. Especially at night. She hated rats, a leftover phobia from her childhood, and she just bet that place was crawling with them.
“If she’s been missing for two days, whatever possessions she had are long gone by now.” Josh gave an exaggerated shudder. “God knows what vermin call that place home.”
All true, but they still had to check out the building. She’d lived in such places as a child, knew that the people who called abandoned buildings home were desperate, sometimes dangerous.
“We need backup.” Taylor called Nate. While they waited, she and Josh returned to the car, put on Kevlar vests, jackets with “FBI” emblazoned on the backs, headsets, and ball caps that would hopefully keep the spiders out of their hair. She wished she had a hazmat suit, to be honest.
After stuffing some small bills into her jacket pocket—a few dollars in the hands of people desperate to know where their next meal or fix would come from might get questions answered—she turned and faced her nightmare. The building seemed like a big black hole out of a Stephen King novel, ready to suck her back into a past she’d tried her best to forget.
