The Missing Link

  By Victor J. Banis

He might have been as young as fifteen; surely no older than eighteen, and small for his age at that. They had not been happy ones, either, those too-few years. Certainly the more recent ones had not been pretty. Neither had his death.

He had been, though: girlishly pretty. That was still evident, notwithstanding the bruises and the distortion of his features, the track marks up and down his arms, in his legs, even between his toes. Under the bizarre purple dye job, the roots of his hair showed pale brown, ash colored. His hazel eyes were wide with the terror of looking death in the face, his babyish mouth stretched in a rictus of pain and horror.

Death was never pretty. This one seemed exceptionally ugly.

"I'd say it was a john," Davidson said. "Strangled the kid. After fucking him, looks like. That condom on the floor by the bed hasn't even dried out yet. The bastard."

This was Boston 's fifth hustler murdered in as many months, all of them brutally, all of them too young for the life they had lived. Too young, certainly, for the death that snatched them from it.

Homicide detective Susan Rivers had to fight down, as she always did, the nausea that threatened. A woman homicide detective couldn't afford to show that kind of weakness. The men didn't try so much anymore to bust her chops, the way they had when she first made the grade, but they still watched her, in ways both subtle and blatant, for any indication of weakness.

The day had started with a quarrel she wanted to have with her husband, and hadn't, about his coming in late. She didn't even know exactly how late. It had been close to three when she fell asleep, so it was after three when he got home, but he'd lied about that, too.

"One o'clock, I think, or maybe one thirty. I can't honestly say," he said when she asked. "You know how it is. We finished bowling and then the guys all wanted to sit around and drink beer, shoot the shit. And all of a sudden someone looks at the clock and say, 'Jesus, it's getting late.' Sorry about that."

She had overslept, was running late and drinking black coffee in big slurps, trying to get herself jump-started. She had to bite off the reply she wanted to make. Never start a quarrel , she told herself, when you can't get it finished and your head is pounding .

It left her pissed off, though, all those words she wanted to say trapped inside her head, chasing around and around, like bumper cars banging into one another. Worse, they'd be all worn out by the time she got home and could turn them loose, they'd be exhausted and he'd dismiss them with ease, the way he always did. He was better with words than she was. And he knew it, too.

Davidson lit a cigarette, without bothering to ask if it was okay with her. It was weird about cigarettes, wasn't it, the way the smoke always drifted straight toward the one who'd given them up? She tried to ignore it. She wanted a cigarette. God, how she wanted a cigarette. She had an urge to snatch it from his hand and puff on it until it burned her fingers. She wanted her lungs filled with the poison of nicotine and tar. She would gladly die on the spot from lung cancer, just for one sweet drag.

She realized belatedly Davidson had said something to her. She gave her head a shake, trying to settle those thoughts-run-amok. He held something in his latex clad fingers. She took it from him.

"The kid had it in his hand," he said, "One of the links must have broken when they were struggling. The perp probably didn't even realize he'd lost it."

It was a man's link bracelet, maybe eight inches long, half an inch wide. An expensive one, certainly, yellow and white gold, decorated with little diamond chips.

She took it to the curtainless window, turning it round in the dirty sunlight. "The link didn't just break," she said. "There was a link missing already. You can see, here, he did a temporary fix with a piece of piano wire. That's what came apart."

"It couldn't have been the kid's. He'd have pawned it a long time ago. Even with a link missing, that would be worth some bucks. It's got a little ding, too, on the clasp there."

She looked closer. "It's an initial," she said. "The letter B. He had it etched into the gold for identification."

"He'll be sorry to have it identified this time. I've never seen one like this before. Shouldn't be too hard to track it down."

"No, we'll get this identified without much trouble." She held it out full length between her too hands. Even in the dusty light it glinted brightly.

"He's got a big wrist," Davidson said.

"Yes, he's a big guy."

"Course, we already knew that. The kid must have put up a hell of a fight."

"Unfortunately, his killer was stronger." Her cell phone rang. She swore under her breath and took it from her belt, flipping it open. "Yes?"

"Hey, Babe," her husband said. "Listen, I'm sorry about this morning. I know you were pissed at me."

"Mmm hmm," she murmured, all too conscious that Davidson was standing nearby.

"I get it," he said. "You can't talk right now."

"That's true," she said.

"Okay, let me do the talking," he said. He laughed softly, the kind of sexy sound that used to make her weak in the knees. When things had been good between them. Back when she still believed.

"Here's the deal," he said, "I'm gonna make everything up to you tonight, I promise. I'll cook dinner. We'll do wine, the works. And after dinner…well, I've got some plans for that, too. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds great," she said, keeping her tone perfectly neutral. She glanced in Davidson's direction and he looked tactfully away, strolled in the direction of the window.

"I love you," the voice on the phone said in a husky whisper.

"That's nice," she said, unimpressed. When you got to where you couldn't believe anything else, how could you believe a man when he told you that? But how had she believed it for so long, when it was surely never true. It was freaky, wasn't it, the way your mind went to sleep when you were in love?

That laugh again. He waited like he expected her to say more, but she had nothing she wanted to say at the moment. Finally he asked, "What time do you think you'll get home?"

She glanced at her watch. "I should be there in, oh, fifteen minutes."

"That early? Great. We'll have more time for, you know."

"Yes, I do know," she said. She started toward the stairs, waving a hand for Davidson to follow her.

"Oh, and Brad—by the way," she added, just before she disconnected, "I found your bracelet."