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He shrugged. “A runaway at some point is what I’m thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others.”

“Figure out . . . ?” Payne said.

“That they ain’t gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?” Eldridge looked between them, then added, “You’re cops. You know they wind up dead all the time.”

“Wish I could say that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Payne said, nodding.

Byrth said, “So, any idea what happened to Beth and her friend?”

“Only that it was same as most. One day here, next never heard from them again. Till you guys showed up.”

“They leave anything behind?”

Eldridge cocked his head. “You kidding me? Place like this?”

“I have to ask. You never know. And we need something we could run for fingerprints—a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor—or DNA off, say, a pair of used panties.”

Eldridge shrugged. “It’s been two months. If it ain’t nailed down, it’s stolen in minutes. Even clothes, old underwear, too. Still, we’re better here than a lot. We take in only twenty, four to a room, each paying three hundred a month. Some places it’s forty or more packed in. Plus we feed them and preach the . . .”

His voice trailed off as he looked past them toward the front door.

“Don’t be coming in here causing no trouble!” the big woman at the table then called out.

Byrth and Payne looked. It was the Jamaican, the big guy with the dreadlocks, at the front door. He towered over the crowd and was pacing, pointing his finger at the Latina with the black eye and blue hoodie.

“What’s Bob Marley’s problem?” Payne said.

“Name’s Marcus,” Eldridge said. “Says some punks shot at him this afternoon. He’s been on edge ever since. Usually really mellow, especially when he’s high.”

Byrth, pushing back his jacket and moving his right hand near his hip, said, “Well, mellow or not, that bastard’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“I told you I want another spliff, bitch!” Marcus then demanded, his deep Caribbean accent booming through the room.

“And I told you fuck off, I ain’t got none!” the Latina snapped back.

In the next instant, Marcus had pulled a knife from his pants pocket and was swinging it wildly.

A moment later he heard two men shout:

“Drop it!”

“Drop the damn knife now!”

When Marcus looked toward the back of the room he saw that the man with the big hat and his partner had pistols drawn—and that they were aiming if not directly at Marcus’s head then just above his multicolored knit cap.

They stepped toward him.

Marcus started to run, then stopped and grabbed the Latina, putting the knife point to her throat. Marcus quickly moved backward with her toward the front door—then let her loose and bolted outside.

“Great,” Payne said, pointing his pistol at the ceiling as he and Byrth started moving faster. “I was tempted to just let the sonofabitch run before he stuck the knife on her.”

—

Matt Payne, keeping the muzzle of his .45 up, flew through the doorway—then slipped when he hit the snow-packed sidewalk. He managed to recover just as Jim Byrth leapt over the slippery spot, landing in the street. They exchanged glances, then took off.

They saw, half a block ahead, Marcus moving quickly. He had his head back, knees flying high, arms pumping.

“Stop! Police!” Payne yelled.