At the sound of footsteps, Janos turned around to see the yellow-haired youngster from Lieutenant Loman’s squad. Judging by the slim build, Janos assumed that the scarecrow’s clothing belonged to this detective. And there was more damning evidence: Ronald Deluthe’s face was flushed red with sudden guilt – perhaps because he carried a living, squirming fly impaled on a hatpin.

‘Deluthe, you’re very young to be this jaded.’Janos smiled at the blushing whiteshield, who now realized that this was a compliment and resumed breathing.

This meeting place had been chosen to increase the prostitute’s anxiety, but Daisy was too stoned to appreciate the decor of framed photographs and citations that screamed, This is a cop bar! Detective Mallory kept fifteen feet of mahogany and five drinking men between herself and the aging whore with electric-red hair.

The skeletal woman perched on the edge of her stool, one eye cocked on the door. Riker was ten minutes late, and the woman would not wait for him much longer. Mallory put on her sunglasses when the hooker glanced in her direction, though it was doubtful she would be recognized; they had both changed so much. Kathy the child had grown into a woman, and Daisy the whore had become a superannuated corpse.

In the old days, this redhead had been a long-haired blonde who had shared heroin with Sparrow. They had done everything together. Mallory had a childhood memory of the two prostitutes vomiting in the same toilet bowl.

Daisy’s bright red mouth formed a suggestive smile for a male customer. The man turned to catch the attention of the bartender, another recent redhead, though, unlike Daisy’s color, Peg Baily’s was a shade found in nature. Also, Baily was softly rounded, glowing with good health, and, in her younger days, she had been a decorated police officer.

The customer arched one eyebrow to ask why a sickly hooker had been allowed to stay so long. Tradition demanded that Daisy be kicked into the street, literally, with the press of a boot on her backside. Peg Baily held up two fingers to let him know that the whore was on the way out in just a few minutes.

Trouble.

This was a new location for the bar. Perhaps it was a coincidence that Baily had moved her business to Riker’s neighborhood, but Mallory thought otherwise.

The bartender looked up at the clock on the wall, then turned to the detective. ‘Your partner’s not gonna show, kid. I’m tossing that hooker out of here right now.’

A whore wasting from AIDS was bad for trade.

Mallory turned to the window – and inspiration. The former Angie Riker was opening the door to a barber shop across the street. Riker’s ex-wife was leading a parade of four teenage boys, the brood of her second husband. Mallory wondered if it was pure accident that her partner had set this time for the interview. Or was he still keeping close tabs on Angie?

The bartender rapped the mahogany to get Mallory’s attention, saying, ‘Time’s up, kid.’

‘Quick question, Baily? You knew Riker when he was married, didn’t you?’

‘You know I did.’ Peg Baily’s eyes were suddenly unfriendly, silently asking, What are you up to? ‘I was his partner. You know that too. What’s this – ’

‘How come you never told him his wife was playing around behind his back?’ As a child, Mallory had learned many things by listening in on her foster parents’ late-night conversations. ‘You knew Angie was a slut. But even after the divorce, you never told Riker. He still doesn’t know you held out on – ’

‘You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you?’ Baily leaned on the bar. ‘I wouldn’t like that, kid. And if you say one word to him, I’ll mess your face up so bad.’

Mallory smiled, for she was younger, faster, and had no healthy sense of fear. Oh, and she was the one with the gun.

Riker had arrived. He stepped out of the car at the curb and watched Deluthe drive off in search of a parking space.

The two women fell into an uneasy silence. The bar’s lighting was low key. Mallory and Baily had no worry of being caught in an act of voyeurism, for Riker was standing in bright sunlight, and the plate glass would act as a mirror. He was slowly turning round, responding to Angie, who hailed him with waving arms. His ex-wife left her children on the curb and crossed the street, dodging traffic and mouthing a happy Hello! As the former Mrs Riker drew closer, Mallory realized that Peg Baily’s new hair color was the exact same shade of carrot red.

Riker faced the window again, pretending interest in the posted hours of his favorite bar as his ex-wife came up behind him. Angie was still a pretty woman, but he would not look at her. She stood beside him, cheerful and chattering, probably asking how he had been – as if they did not see one another all the time. His own apartment was only a block away from hers. However, it was enough that Riker could be near this woman, and that he could see her face every single day; he never spoke to Angie anymore – he never would again. It was just too hard on him.

The woman put one hand on her ex-husband’s sleeve.

Peg Baily’s hands curled into fists.

Riker lost his slouch and stood up straight, rigid and stone silent. He stared at the window, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Angie’s shrug said, No hard feelings. Then, giving up on him, she crossed back to the other side of the street.

Not wanting to witness any more of this, Peg Baily walked off to fetch a glass of club soda for her ex-partner, who never drank on duty. Mallory continued to watch the man lingering on the sidewalk, staring at his shoes and collecting his sorry wits. She was now convinced that there had been no affair between Riker and Sparrow. He was still in love with his ex. And why would he take up with a whore when Peg Baily was still waiting for her own turn?

He entered the bar and waved to Baily. She started to slide his soda down the bar when he put up one hand to stop her, then ordered cheap bourbon.

More trouble.

He loosened his tie as he sat down beside Daisy, and the hooker promptly ordered a champagne cocktail.

Riker was working on his second shot of bourbon as he listened to the prostitute’s slow drawl, so like Sparrow’s. Years ago, the hookers had been the best of friends, two small-town southern girls against the city. So far, the interview had turned up nothing useful, and now he stirred up a memory of old times. ‘Remember that little blond girl who used to run with Sparrow?’ ‘Wasn’t just Sparrow. That kid used to work a battalion of whores.’ Daisy signaled Baily for another champagne cocktail.

‘What was her name?’

‘Oh, darlin’, she had a lotta names. One hooker called her the Flyin’ Flea, and Sparrow called her Baby.’

‘And you?’

‘Hey Kid – that’s what I called her. First time I ever saw her was in a crackhouse.’ The hooker paused to inhale her drink. ‘She came in lookin’ for Sparrow. What a dirty little face. And those eyes – tiny green fires, but so cold. Nothin’ warm and cuddly ‘bout that little girl. And mean? Oh, darlin’, you got no idea. Ah, but her face – I saw it when it was clean. God don’t make angels that pretty. But I don’t mean to say that God made her. I don’t blaspheme. My mama raised me better.’

This was going to take a while. Riker had no idea how Daisy made a living on the city streets, where time was money. She hailed from a more temperate climate, where customers and cops could wait around all day for a whore to finish a thought.

‘So, like I was saying, I’m in this crackhouse, and I hear a noise in the dark. At first, all I see is her eyes – cold, empty. Scary eyes. That little girl had no soul. She comes up to me and hands me a cigarette case – real silver. And she gives me this ratty old book with cowboys on the cover. Not my taste. Well, she swipes away the needles and trash so she can sit down beside me. Then she kicks out one little foot to make the rats run. And she says, „Read me a story.“ She don’t say please, nothin’ like that. Just says, „Read me a story,“ like that’s my job in life.’