“He could have bought discretion two miles from here at a four-star hotel. And why a street girl? There’s a whole business of call girls in town, you pay for discretion and a modicum of class.”
“The girl was underage, according to the witness, and that makes him a pervert. Perverts like seedy motels.” She was getting angry. Not so much at Julie’s flippant conversation, but at how her tone seemed to suggest that she condoned the whole sex business. Or if not condoned, at least tolerated.
But when powerful men like Worthington started using underage prostitutes, it wasn’t a new or sudden obsession. He would continue and eventually look at younger girls. Because it was about power and control, the need to dominate, the belief that girls were chattel to be bought and sold like animals. It wasn’t the crime scene in front of her that made Lucy’s stomach turn over uncomfortably, it was the motivation of the dead guy. She couldn’t muster much compassion for him. Maybe his death was divine retribution.
Officer Garcia called over to them. “CSI just pulled up.”
“It’s about effing time,” Julie said.
“And another fed.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. She turned to Julie. “I’ve worked too many cases where prostitutes were beaten and murdered by men like Worthington. I don’t have a lot of sympathy.”
Julie assessed her. “Well, you’re welcome to sit in on the autopsy. Assist if you want—you have the creds. But trust me when I say this: I’ve worked in San Antonio for thirteen years, have been called to thousands of death scenes, and have performed over three thousand autopsies, everything from stabbings to strokes to heart attacks to sudden infant death syndrome. Some that looked suspicious, but were natural; some that looked natural but weren’t. Ninety-seven percent of my cases are routine, nonviolent deaths.” She paused to remove the crime scene tape so the two CSIs could go in and process the room. “My gut tells me Worthington falls in the three percent.”
*
Lucy approached Agent Barry Crawford as he was talking to one of the patrol officers. Barry was dressed impeccably, as always—pressed light gray suit, shiny black shoes, crisp white shirt. His blond hair was neatly trimmed and styled—and yes, perfect—and he looked like the stereotypical fed. He was physically fit and always wore a serious expression. Lucy couldn’t remember ever seeing him actually smile, and he never laughed. She knew very little about Barry because he rarely participated in casual conversation with the squad and never socialized after work.
Barry glanced at her. “You should have waited for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You went into the room.”
“I just looked.”
Barry ignored the comment and said, “Officer Nava says the taxi driver wants to leave. We need to interview him before he does. You speak fluent Spanish, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mine is rough. Translate for me.”
“I can question him if you want to—”
“I need to ask the questions.”
Lucy bristled. She might be a rookie, but she was also a psychologist and had extensive training in interrogations and questioning witnesses. She could handle a simple interview. But she kept her mouth shut, remembering that she was a rookie, and already on thin ice with her boss. More than anything, she wanted to get back into Juan’s good graces, and if that meant taking orders from Crawford, she would do it.
Officer Nava led them across the parking lot to where the motel manager sat with the taxi driver on a worn bench outside of the small office. The office had bars on the windows and no place inside to sit.
The manager said, “Y’all need to get that body out of my motel and let me get back to work. You’re ruining my business.”
Barry said, “Officer, please take Mr. Valera to retrieve the logbooks and surveillance tapes.”
“We don’t have any of that,” Valera said.
“Then step aside so I can do my job. I’ll talk to you next.”
Barry nodded at Nava, who took the manager far enough to prevent eavesdropping. Valera lit up a cigarette and paced.
The taxi driver had been identified as Carlos Potrero. He showed his ID and cab license to Barry. He was edgy, but Lucy suspected it was simply because he’d been here for hours—he could have easily left before the police arrived. That told her he wanted to help, even though it had likely cost him half his daily income.
“Mr. Potrero, do you speak English?” Barry asked after identifying them as federal agents.
He moved his hand up and down. “A bit.”
“Agent Kincaid will translate if you’re more comfortable speaking in Spanish.”
“Si. Gracias.”
Barry instructed Lucy to ask the driver how he knew Mr. Worthington.
Lucy asked in Spanish, “Mr. Potrero, you told Officer Nava that you dropped Mr. Worthington off here at eleven P.M. and that he asked you to return at midnight, correct?”
“Si, Se?ora.”
“Have you driven Mr. Worthington before? Did he call and request you?”
“No, Se?ora.”
“Where did you pick him up?”
“Airport.”
“San Antonio Airport?”
“Si.”