It was like a jewel box. The walls were painted sea-serpent green, the wood floors were painted black, the cashier’s counter was covered in red velvet, and the light fixtures appeared to be made of old brass watch parts. Brass pipes hung on chains from the ceiling, adorned with gowns, corsets, petticoats, and bustles; gentlemen’s suits with vests, coats, and spats; old-fashioned military uniforms. Antique dark wood shelving displayed quirky pocket watches, old-fashioned parasols, goggles, and ray guns.
The woman standing behind the red velvet counter was wearing a black Edwardian gown under a black leather corset. Around her neck was a magnifying glass and, in a glass relic locket, what looked to be a human tooth. She was wearing a leather gun belt with a Flash Gordon ray gun in each holster.
“I’m with the Herald,” Susan said. “Derek Rogers sent me.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“You called him earlier today,” Susan said. “We’re looking for Margaux Clinton. Goes by ‘Pearl.’Sixteen.About five feet four.Skinny.Short dark hair. Goggles”—she pointed to the goggles displayed on the shelf—“like those. You told Derek Rogers that she used to work here.”
“I don’t know anyone named Derek Rogers,” the woman said. “And I don’t read the Herald.”
“You didn’t call the Herald today?”
“No. But Pearl did work here. I fired her for shoplifting about a month ago.” The woman slid a glance at Henry, and then back at Susan. “She a runaway?” she asked.
“She’s wanted in connection with several murders,” Henry said.
The woman gave Henry a disapproving look. “He the father?” she asked Susan.
“I’m a cop,” Henry said.
“She’s involved with some bad people,” Susan explained. She got a business card out of her wallet and set it on the counter. “Journalist,” she said. As if that might help cancel out the cop thing.
“If she ran away,” the woman said, “she probably had a reason.”
Henry looked around the store. “Maybe her parents wanted her to dress like a normal person,” he said.
The woman gave Henry a once-over. He was wearing black jeans and a sweat-stained, faded black T-shirt. The woman seemed unimpressed. “People look at you, they frown,” the woman said to Henry. She posed, Vogue-style, and fluttered her eyelashes. “They look at me, they smile.”
Henry stepped in front of her, drawing to his full, barrel-chested height. “Look at me,” he said. “I don’t give a shit if you smile. I don’t give a shit if you wear dumb-ass goggles. What I care about is finding Pearl Clinton.” His shaved head was beaded with sweat. “And I’m going to give you ten seconds to tell us where she is.”
C H A P T E R 55
The intersection of Thirty-eighth Avenue and Hawthorne Boulevard was prime panhandling real estate, and according to the manager of From the Earth to the Moon, Pearl had been a regular, hitting up Hawthorne shoppers for cash.
“Jesus, watch out,” Susan said, as Henry barely avoided sideswiping a bicyclist.
Henry grumbled something under his breath and then did a double take out the windshield. “There,” he said.
Pearl was just rounding the corner onto Thirty-eighth.
“Hold on,” Henry said. He screeched the car to a halt halfway up on the curb, opened the door, and lunged out after her.
Susan braced herself on the dash, and then got out and sprinted after Henry.
By the time she got there, Henry already had Pearl by the arm.
“I want a lawyer,” Pearl said.
Henry gripped her arm tighter, and the muscles in his bare upper arm bulged. “If I take you in and dial you up a lawyer,” he said, “it will mean calling your parents and child services. Still want one?”
A small crowd had gathered. There was always plenty of foot traffic on Hawthorne. A couple of other street kids had come up, a few people with shopping bags, a couple of bicyclists who had stopped and were standing with their helmets on—all watching. Some of them were taking cell-phone video.
“Ordinary citizen, here,” Pearl cried, “getting harassed by the fuzz.”
“Henry,” Susan said.
Henry let go of Pearl’s arm. She rubbed the spot where he’d been holding her and then crossed her arms defiantly.
“This isn’t a game,” Henry said. “Tell me where Archie Sheridan is.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Pearl said, loud enough that the bystanders could hear.
Henry blinked in disbelief. “Nothing wrong? You’re part of a serial-killer fan club.”
Pearl shrugged. “So? I was into Wicca in junior high. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Where’s Jeremy Reynolds?” Henry demanded.
Pearl just glared at him.
“Let me talk to her,” Susan said.
Henry pointed a finger at Pearl’s nose. “There’s a foster family with your name on it,” he said.
“Go fuck yourself,” Pearl said.
Henry’s face reddened and Susan wedged between him and Pearl. “How long have you been a part of the Beauty Killer . . .”—she looked for the right word—“group?”
Pearl rolled her eyes and sighed. “I met Jeremy at the Country Fair in Eugene,” she said. “He invited me to join. It sounded fun. You hook up in the middle of the night in some scary spot and try to scare the shit out of each other.”
“They scar themselves to look like murder victims,” Henry said behind Susan.
“I didn’t know that until last night,” Pearl said.