The Hunt. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
up to the curb, parked, and got out. The man took one look at us, laughed out loud, and rattled down the street.
“Yeah?” she said. I pegged her as late teens, early twenties, black, wearing tight jeans and an orange sequined blouse with a tear in the side under a thin, unzipped gray hoodie. She had a face three degrees from pretty that wasn’t helped by dark bruising on her left cheek. Her eyes were glassy and she swayed as she spoke. I told her my name and my job and what I needed. I showed her the Reardoor.com picture of Jessica.
“You a cop?”
“I’m private, like I said.” I thought of the scene with my father. “Like a security guard.” The afternoon visit had gone only marginally better, but at least we hadn’t come to blows.
“Bullshit.”
“He’s true,” Theresa said, from the van.
“Who’s she?”
“My backup,” I said. “In case I get in trouble.”
“You gonna need more than her.” She studied the photograph for a minute, finally shaking her head and handing it back. She had to take a step to keep her balance. “Don’t know her.”
“You sure?”
“Not many white girls this side of town. Why you looking for her?”
“Like I said, she’s missing.”
“Missing from where?”
It was a good question, actually. “People who care about her haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Ain’t that nice. Still don’t know her.”
“Could you call me if you see her?”
“Not likely. She probably dead, anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause of that guy killing the girls. Why else she be missing?”
“Lots of reasons, I hope. How about you? Aren’t you worried, being out here?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“’Cause the girls he got was stupid. Probably did dumb shit. Went someplace they shouldn’t have. Did stuff they didn’t need to.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Like it was their fault?” I said.
She laughed, and for the first time I could hear a cold in her chest. “You some big expert on us, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I thanked her, gave her my card, and got back in the van. I watched her crumple up the card and toss it in the gutter as I drove away.
“She’s lying,” Theresa said.
“About what?”
“About the guy. The killer. She’s worried.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. It’s just she’s got more important things to think about right now.”
“What’s more important than a serial killer?”
“How about, her next fix? How about, turning enough tricks to make her daddy happy? Happy enough he don’t beat the shit out of her later. All that on your mind, a rope around your throat’s the least of your concerns.”
“Point taken.”
We continued the drive east. A few blocks down I pulled over quickly. Two women were giving us the deadeye from a vacant lot across the street beside an abandoned convenience store. One black, one white. The white woman looked a lot like Jessica.
I got out and crossed over, Theresa following behind me.
“This ain’t BYOB,” the white one said, looking at Theresa. I studied her more closely and realized I’d been mistaken. She had the same high forehead and cocky purse to her lips as Jessica, and she was about the same height and weight. She even had the same brown hair. The resemblance was real enough. But that’s all it was. A cruel similarity that maybe grew from a shared life on the streets.
I gave them my spiel and showed them the photo.
“Know who she is,” the look-alike said, taking the photo from me. She was wearing a thin black sweater, red satin shorts, and black stockings with a run all the way down the left leg. “Lisa’s friend. Girl who died.”
“Lisa Washington,” I said.
“Yeah.”
I tapped the photo. “Have you seen her around?”
“Not for a while.”
“How long a while?”
“Couldn’t say. Months, maybe.”
“Anybody ever tell you that you look like her?”
“People ain’t looking at my face out here, OK?”
“Just asking.” But what I was thinking was: in another context, in another world, they might have been. She was pretty underneath the hard set of her mouth and her cold stare. The expressive, intelligent eyes fixed on me didn’t fit her current situation. Change a few things and she could easily have been somebody’s girlfriend, stepping out to a club or going to a ballgame or strolling through an art museum instead of standing on a street corner in the cold wearing clothes that would barely keep you warm in May, let alone December.
I said, “I heard she was Bronte Patterson’s bottom girl.”
“You say so.”
“You know Bronte?”
“Know of him.”
“You know how I can find him? How I could get in touch?”
She laughed nervously. “No.”
“Know anybody who does?”
She shook her head, not meeting my eyes.
“How long have you been out here?”
“Couple hours. Why?”
“I meant, how long have you been doing this?”
“Listen, mister. Fuck off, all right? Ain’t your business. And you’re hurting mine, standing here like this.”
“Are you from here?” I persisted. “Columbus?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Go to hell.” She looked at me with what passed for fire in those expressive eyes. But all she had left was coals after someone pisses on them.
I gave her my card. “You see Jessica, would you call me? I can pay.”
“Pay me now.”
“For what?”
“Something.”
“I’m not interested in—”
“Not that. Something about Jessica.”
“What?”
Her eyes moved to the street, where cars were slowing at the corner before moving on when they spied me. She glared at me. I nodded. She wouldn’t be the first person to tell me I was bad for their bottom line. I pulled out my wallet and handed her a twenty. It disappeared like a flame snuffed by a sudden breeze.
“She’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“She’s scared of something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Lisa was scared