Page 41 of Long Way Down

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Mrs. Sandoval,” Melissa said, the lie sour on her tongue. She didn’t have anything to worry about from this rapist…but they were in New York, after all. A horrible fate lurked around every corner.

As if it’s perfectly safe back home, a traitorous voice that sounded far too much like her father whispered in the back of her mind.

Contreras hadn’t had much luck at the other house, either. The husband and wife who lived there were going through, in their own words, “relationship difficulties,” and had been watching a movie together per their therapist’s suggestion.

“He can’t hear a damn thing so the volume was all the way up,” the wife complained when Contreras asked if they’d seen or heard anything out of place.

“I think I would’ve heard someone getting attacked, Charlene!” the husband had bit back.

“Right,” Melissa drawled when Contreras relayed the story. “Through at least two walls. Sure.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “But neither of them noticed an unfamiliar or suspicious person or car on the street. They both claimed they would have.”

“If the person even was suspicious. Maybe he lives on the street.”

“And went all the way over to Lana’s place stalking her?” he countered. “We’ve got two vics, and one thing links them: art.”

“Yeah.” Her stomach gave a lurch when she remembered what Pongo had said last night – the reason she’d gotten so angry, and then gotten so heated; the reason they’d wound up naked on her kitchen floor. “Wait,” she said, and then winced, because she wasn’t sure if she could share what he’d told her.

Contreras snapped to alertness immediately. “What?”

“If this is the same guy – and I mean if…”

He tipped his head as if to sayof course.

“There…might be a third vic.”

“Athird? Who?”

She held up a staying hand. “Might. Justmight. I, uh – have anacquaintance.” She made a face.

“An acquaintance,” he said, tone very flat in a way that meant he wasinterested, and trying to be patient.

“Yeah. He’s, um…well, he heard about this other – potential – vic from a…friend.” God, the man she was sleeping with was friends with pimps, wasn’t he? Definitely dealers. Probably hitmen if that crew from Tennessee was anything to go by. She had a sudden, vivid memory of Devin Green trying to hit on her while he was bleeding out in the back of a Suburban. “Someone who” – she sighed; there was no sense beating around the bush about it – “she’s a prostitute, and she got jumped on the sidewalk one night, and the guy choked her out, raped her, and carved ‘This one’s for you, Davey’ in her back.”

He blinked. “In her back?”

“I made that same face when Pon – when I was told.”

“Whew.” He shook his head. “You see a lotta shit on this job, and you think you’ve seen it all…but damn.”

“Yeah.”

“A prostitute?”

“Yeah. And my acquaintance–”

“Pon?” He asked, smirk teasing at one corner of his mouth.

Damn it. She’d hoped he hadn’t picked up on her slip. She felt her face heat, but thought she managed to keep her expression neutral when she said, “It’s a nickname. Anyway,” she pressed on, when he opened his mouth to ask for further details, “he says the girl doesn’t want to talk to the police, that she didn’t even like talking to him about it.”

He frowned. “Then whywasshe talking to him about it? Dixon,” he said, “are you friends with a pimp?”

“No!” She was too loud and checked herself, hating his soft snort of amusement. “No. I know – not friends with,know– someone who might be friends with one.”

“What sorta friends are–” His eyes widened. “Wait. Hold on.”

“Shit,” she muttered.