I met Valerie, she’s so beautiful, and really nice. She was unhappy, didn’t know what to do. There was this man who was threatening her. Please, let me come with you. Maybe if she sees me, she’ll agree to talk to you.”
“This is police business, ma’am. You’re a civilian, for God’s sake, you can’t just—”
“Please,” Nick said, and grabbed Delion’s sleeve. “This is so important to me, please, Inspector. I won’t get in the way, I won’t say a thing, but—”
“I’m an outsider, too, Delion,” Dane said. “Maybe she can be helpful if Ms. Striker doesn’t want to talk to us.” His unspoken message that Delion got real fast was that Ms. Jones might just disappear on them again.
Delion said low to Dane, “If this was FBI business, would you let her tag along with you?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Yeah, right.” He said on a sigh to Nick, “All right, Ms. Jones, just this one time. Dane, she’s your responsibility.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Hey, wait. Before we head on over to Valerie’s place, let’s just wait for the forensic artist here before Ms. Jones starts to forget.”
An hour later, Jenny Butler, one of two forensic artists on staff, held up her sketch for everyone to see.
“Is that him, Ms. Jones?” Delion asked.
Nick nodded slowly. “It’s as close as I can get. Will it help?”
“Remains to be seen. Thank you, Jenny. How’s Tommy?”
“He’s just ducky, Vince. The older he gets the more of a handful he becomes.” She added to Dane and Nick, “He’s my husband. See you, Vince.”
“Thanks. Ms. Jones, this sketch will be printed up and distributed, and there will be no mention of you.”
Delion grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, Nick and Dane close on his heels.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Ford next to the curb only a block from the address they wanted on Dickers Avenue.
The three of them stood a moment staring up at the old Victorian where Valerie Striker lived.
Delion looked at Ms. Jones—homeless woman, fake name—and said, “This is great, just great. I’ve got a Fed and a civilian with me to interview a witness. Great.”
“He’s all bark,” Dane said.
They watched Delion stomp up the six stairs to the front door of the Victorian, which was painted four shades of green. He turned. “Hey, come on, you guys, enough chitchat. Let’s see what Valerie’s got to say.”
“The place looks terrific,” Dane said, touching a pale lime-green gargoyle, one of three hovering over the lintel of the front door, looking down at them. “Business must be good.”
“I talked to one of the inspectors in Vice; he said eight hookers live here. Everything very discreet, very respectable, doubtful even the neighbors know anything. There’s a back way in, and it’s all sorts of private.”
Delion rang the bell to 4B. “There’s four apartments on each floor.”
There was no answer.
He rang again.
There was still no answer.
“It’s pretty early,” Dane said. “She’s probably still asleep.”
“Yeah, well, we’re her wake-up call.” Delion pressed his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
Three minutes later, he rang the bell to 4C.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Very polite, very discreet,” Delion said under his breath, then continued into the intercom, “This is Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD. I know I got you up, but I’m a cop and we need to talk to you.
This isn’t a bust, nothing like that. We’re not here to cause you any trouble. We just need to talk.”
A pause, then the buzzer sounded.
The entrance was old-fashioned, dripping with Victoriana, the dark red carpeting rich and deep.
Everything was indeed very upscale.
Dane glanced over at Nick Jones. She looked fascinated. Must be her first time in a hooker’s nest.
Come to think about it, it was his first time, too. Business, he thought, stroking his hand over the beautifully carved newel post on the stairs, was good.
They walked up one
“This is police business, ma’am. You’re a civilian, for God’s sake, you can’t just—”
“Please,” Nick said, and grabbed Delion’s sleeve. “This is so important to me, please, Inspector. I won’t get in the way, I won’t say a thing, but—”
“I’m an outsider, too, Delion,” Dane said. “Maybe she can be helpful if Ms. Striker doesn’t want to talk to us.” His unspoken message that Delion got real fast was that Ms. Jones might just disappear on them again.
Delion said low to Dane, “If this was FBI business, would you let her tag along with you?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Yeah, right.” He said on a sigh to Nick, “All right, Ms. Jones, just this one time. Dane, she’s your responsibility.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Hey, wait. Before we head on over to Valerie’s place, let’s just wait for the forensic artist here before Ms. Jones starts to forget.”
An hour later, Jenny Butler, one of two forensic artists on staff, held up her sketch for everyone to see.
“Is that him, Ms. Jones?” Delion asked.
Nick nodded slowly. “It’s as close as I can get. Will it help?”
“Remains to be seen. Thank you, Jenny. How’s Tommy?”
“He’s just ducky, Vince. The older he gets the more of a handful he becomes.” She added to Dane and Nick, “He’s my husband. See you, Vince.”
“Thanks. Ms. Jones, this sketch will be printed up and distributed, and there will be no mention of you.”
Delion grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, Nick and Dane close on his heels.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Ford next to the curb only a block from the address they wanted on Dickers Avenue.
The three of them stood a moment staring up at the old Victorian where Valerie Striker lived.
Delion looked at Ms. Jones—homeless woman, fake name—and said, “This is great, just great. I’ve got a Fed and a civilian with me to interview a witness. Great.”
“He’s all bark,” Dane said.
They watched Delion stomp up the six stairs to the front door of the Victorian, which was painted four shades of green. He turned. “Hey, come on, you guys, enough chitchat. Let’s see what Valerie’s got to say.”
“The place looks terrific,” Dane said, touching a pale lime-green gargoyle, one of three hovering over the lintel of the front door, looking down at them. “Business must be good.”
“I talked to one of the inspectors in Vice; he said eight hookers live here. Everything very discreet, very respectable, doubtful even the neighbors know anything. There’s a back way in, and it’s all sorts of private.”
Delion rang the bell to 4B. “There’s four apartments on each floor.”
There was no answer.
He rang again.
There was still no answer.
“It’s pretty early,” Dane said. “She’s probably still asleep.”
“Yeah, well, we’re her wake-up call.” Delion pressed his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
Three minutes later, he rang the bell to 4C.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Very polite, very discreet,” Delion said under his breath, then continued into the intercom, “This is Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD. I know I got you up, but I’m a cop and we need to talk to you.
This isn’t a bust, nothing like that. We’re not here to cause you any trouble. We just need to talk.”
A pause, then the buzzer sounded.
The entrance was old-fashioned, dripping with Victoriana, the dark red carpeting rich and deep.
Everything was indeed very upscale.
Dane glanced over at Nick Jones. She looked fascinated. Must be her first time in a hooker’s nest.
Come to think about it, it was his first time, too. Business, he thought, stroking his hand over the beautifully carved newel post on the stairs, was good.
They walked up one
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