Eames: We're still doing these dialogues?
Goren: Yup.
Eames: Why? Didn't fandom collectively decide a decade ago that this trope was deeply unfunny?
Goren: It's the Relativity Theory of Humor.
Eames: …
Goren: It's so deeply unfunny, it comes out the other side as funny again.
"You sure?" Monique's voice at the other end of the line was a crackle of static; reception was shit this side of the bridge. It couldn't cover the concern in her voice. "These guys play for keeps."
Dutton rolled her eyes. "You blackmailed me, woman. Don't tell me you're getting cold feet."
"Emotional blackmail at worst," Monique said. Her tone lightened by the hint of a smile; for all that she was supposed to be a detective, she would let this snark stand as evidence that Dutton wasn't traumatized by getting photos of her alternate universe fate slapped down on the table next to her coffee. If there was one thing the Big Apple taught, it was that anyone could become blind to what they didn't want to see. "Haven't been prosecuted for it yet."
"First time for everything," Dutton said.
"Any idea where you might look first?"
"You gonna micromanage my informing?" Dutton said. "Sit back. Relax. Have a donut. I'll let you know if anything remotely interesting happens."
xxxxx
Dutton started with the women at PONY. A little research on Bobby's laptop had shown that they were part of a worldwide organization that did a lot of policy work as well as boots-on-the-ground information sharing and protests. There was a phone number and e-mail address on the website, but Dutton decided not to reach out through those, both because she figured other pros would be wary of an anonymous message about serial killers, and because if said serial killers were as highly placed as she, Bobby, and Jeffries suspected, she didn't want to leave anything remotely close to a paper trail.
She was probably being paranoid. She didn't care.
Anyway, there was an events calendar that looked like someone occasionally remembered to update it, so Dutton put on the version of her best outfit that wasn't a magnet for transit cops to hassle her, and took the bus to the address on the site.
She got there about fifteen minutes late, thanks to the rain and some asshole who wanted to argue with the bus driver about the fare change like it was going to get him anywhere. Her shoes were splattered with mud but she'd managed to snag an abandoned newspaper off a bus seat to be transformed into every New Yorker's favorite free umbrella, so it could've been worse.
At least it looked like the meeting hadn't started yet. Dutton looked around the space, which was clean but had the same vaguely dingy look shared by every multi-business office space built in the nineties, and walls covered in posters whose bright colors signaled the desperate cheer of decorators trying not to notice that the carpet hadn't been replaced in ten years.
The scent of bulk-discount instant coffee issued from the largest knot of people in the room, and Dutton slipped into the line for the warm drink and slightly stale donuts. Her counterparts were a wide range of ages and races, and to her slight surprise, genders—she certainly knew a few transgender women, but in her experience they and the genderqueer folks tended to clump together on their own streets, and the pretty young rent boys tended to operate almost entirely from the clubs or the internet. Dutton made polite but guarded conversation while she filled her styrofoam cup—she told herself that she was playing a role, and if that role's uncertainty and awkwardness mirrored her own, that was a pure coincidence—and learned that other than a couple strippers and a phone sex operator, the attendees tonight were a mix of streetwalkers and those who had fully embraced the internet to pick up johns.
"It's not perfect," a six foot tall woman with a glittery scarf wrapped around her throat told her. "But I could never go back. Being able to vet a guy from my couch—I got beat up six times the last year before I switched."
"That's why it's so concerning about the legislation," piped up the girl behind her, who would have been even shorter than Dutton even if she hadn't already been in a wheelchair.
Dutton had been following the progress of the bill mentioned for months now, but she couldn't be sure how much of that was because she was living with a man who inhaled and exhaled the written word like it was air—not to mention that it was easier to find a moment to do a deep read on an issue when you weren't worried about having a place to sleep or enough to eat or when to be warm again. Would she have the same amount of detail if she were still on her own, like she was pretending? She made noncommittal noises and repeated back the last part of the statement as a question, which bought enough time as a monologue that the perky woman with asymmetrical hair who was apparently in charge began making noises about actually starting the meeting, and Dutton made her way to one of the folding chairs in the very back. She felt a little foolish as soon as she sat—why did she expect to need to escape? Shouldn't this have been the place she felt the most comfortable and understood?—but the woman was making her way to a podium, and Dutton's stomach clenched at the idea of getting up and moving closer, of making anybody notice her more than they had already.
The lights dimmed, and a projector that looked like it had been in good condition when Vanilla Ice was still getting hit singles cast its light over the wall.
"We'll get to the meat of the meeting in just a moment," the woman chirped. "But first, just a few housekeeping items." Click. The picture didn't change. "Sorry. We were supposed to have Powerpoint, but Natalie couldn't bring her computer tonight, and I'm not sure how to set up—Cara, can you take care of that?" Some rustling, another click, the picture changed to a group of women in front of a cityscape that looked like it had been airlifted directly from a Disney movie, all white marble almost-castles and golden winged statues. "Thank you. Okay, first of all a reminder if you haven't already to please sign our petition in solidarity with our sisters in Lyon, where the cops are playing "hide the whores" again to keep from tarnishing their tourists' experience—" scattered boos and hisses from the assembled PONY members—"which is of course pushing them into the more remote and dangerous parts of town. We'll be having a guest blog post later this week from someone in our sister organization here about some of the challenges she and her friends have been encountering."
Dutton could well imagine. Every time the Yankees played someone who could give them half a challenge, cops who could usually be counted on to come down with selective blindness after a handjob suddenly developed startling visual acuity. If she didn't want to spend the night in jail, she had to leave her usual turf. Sometimes it worked out okay.
Other times, not so much.
The woman up front shuffled her papers, and the picture clicked over to a slide of a large group of women in a coffeehouse. "On a happier note, the renovation at Orange Blossom Café is complete, so our weekly poetry readings will resume there next week, and you can all stop bitching about the coffee I get from Sam's Club." Murmurs of laughter. "Remember, the show starts at seven-thirty, and sign-up starts at seven. We've got a lot of talented folks and we want to hear from all of you." Another click, and a picture of a cheerful group of people—Dutton recognized some of the faces from the coffee line—sitting around a table together. "And of course, we're always looking for volunteers to stuff envelopes for our monthly newsletter; our members without internet access rely on that to know about these meetings and our HIV testing schedule. It's always a good time, and sometimes I cave and buy a pizza when everyone complains about how hungry the smell from next door is making them; talk to Michelle back there—Michelle, wave so the newbies know who you are—" Michelle waved—"if you're interested in volunteering."
It could have been any of the committee meetings Dutton's mother used to chair at the old church before her arthritis got too bad to make the trek more than once a week.
She shouldn't have been surprised. She'd been a hooker for how long now? She knew that it didn't matter what your job was: people were people, and committees were committees.
But she was surprised, a little. What did that mean? Had she held herself apart more than she realized? What did that say about her, if she had?
Dutton forced herself back into the moment, where a lively discussion was taking place about the language in the newly proposed bill around Craigslist; a lot of the assembled folks used it and Backdoor to help them vet clients and make sure a john was safe before meeting him in person. She took mental notes, wondering if it would look weird to pull out a pad and take actual notes; this had never been the way she had worked, but she wasn't scared of computers and it seemed like it might complement the more stable housing situation she currently found herself in.
How would her life have been different if she'd known all this as soon as it became a possibility?
How would her life have been different if she'd had this community?
If she hadn't been so ashamed of how she started, with the doctor and the extortion?
If she hadn't been trying to hide?
"—and we'll see you all next week," the presenter was saying. "Please do finish up the coffee and the cookies, but we have to be out of here by 9 pm, so if you want to continue your conversations, I recommend the McDonalds around the corner—"
Dutton came back to herself with a start, chastising herself for drifting. What if there had been something important? She gathered her coat and purse, noting the way the group broke off into twos and threes, some to raid the snack table, others presumably heading to the McDonalds or home. It seemed people knew each other here. Trusted each other.
She felt that pang again, that loss—no, not quite loss. Loss implied you had had something to start with.
She'd had a community, hadn't she? She'd walked the streets with the same women for—
But no. Laura had overdosed. Cammy was doing time on a bullshit entrapment charge upstate. Angela had cozied up to a low level Mob guy, and ran in different circles now, alternately sporting diamonds and bruises. Ladonna, and Micki, and Kass—Dutton didn't even know. One day they just weren't there anymore.
It wasn't the same.
She felt cold, even though she was still indoors, even though she had wrapped her coat tight around her. The thought of trying to approach those warm knots of people around the dregs of the coffee made something pitch in her stomach. She knew how to charm rich and poor men, angry and disappointed men, violent men and men perched on the edge of violence. But she no longer remembered how to just…talk, to anyone like her.
Would these people even recognize her as like them?
There'll be time later to make inroads, Dutton told herself as she hunched her shoulders up like wall and hurried towards the stairs. This isn't the only meeting I'll go to. It would look suspicious to be too friendly right away.
She was hurrying so fast she almost missed the poster.
It was old, hanging by just one thumbtack on the bulletin board, partially covered by an equally old announcement that December 17th there would be a vigil at Metropolitan Community Church to commemorate the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. Pictures of murdered women on that poster drew the eye, overlaid with bold red letters: Our Lives Have Value.
Dutton was avoiding looking at the women, which was how she saw the second poster:
MISSING: A girl, barely out of her teens if that. Light brown skin, big brown eyes. A scarf at her throat. Had Dutton ever seen that scarf? Of course not. Probably at Walmart if she had, or a rack at that pharmacy. She'd remember the girl if she had seen the girl with the scarf, and she didn't remember the girl. She would remember, wouldn't she? She'd remember those eyes—
"Going this year?"
Dutton started; it was one of the organizers, not the one who had led the meeting, the other one, what was her name—Michelle. She wore an oversize T-shirt, cargo pants, and the confident smile of someone who had a quota of volunteers to fill and knew she was going to make it.
"Excuse me?"
"The vigil." Michelle nodded towards the top poster, the one that had first caught Dutton's attention. "Oh shit, that's old, isn't it?" She tore it off. "We're going to try to have it at the same place, but we'll have to change the time, they have another thing—dammit, this one's old too!" She pulled down the poster of the girl before Eames could see the full name, Crystal Tut—"I swear to God, I make a schedule for these to come down every month, but does Benjy check? He fucking does not." She offered Dutton her hand. "Michelle Vandermeer. What brings you to our little den? Interested in volunteering?"
"I'm busy," Dutton said automatically. She kicked herself as the words came out of her mouth, but no, she wasn't a joiner and she wasn't going to pretend to be. Make them win her over, that would get them more invested in her and if it got her out of her sooner, if she didn't have to feel this belonging-not-belonging one second longer right now, then she wasn't going to examine that—"It's—it's been interesting. Good stuff. I might be—I don't know—it's—I have to go."
xxxxx
"I don't know what happened." Eames knocked back her mug of coffee and let her head fall into her hands. "It was a goddamn perfect opening, and I wasted it. Lost three hours of income and nothing to show for it."
"You said it yourself, they're probably used to women being skittish." Bobby dished out some bacon and eggs, which Eames poked at morosely. "Especially if they're worried about the law, or new to the idea of unionizing—"
Eames stabbed a piece of bacon with her fork and used it to point at him. "I'll have you know, the Eameses are a proud union family. The right to organize is held only slightly less sacred than the Virgin Mary, the Yankees, and Guinness."
"Noted," Bobby said with that little twitch of a smile, like he couldn't quite help it. "But again, like you said—we're trying to build a, a long-term relationship here. It's not our last chance by a long shot." He sat down; his brow creased in that way he had, where she knew he was running back through the entire conversation, picking out the bits he found interesting like shiny bits of sea glass from the sand. "You said that have…sub groups? Focus groups?"
"Something like that," Eames said. She sighed, and let the truth slowly filter into her brain, despite Bobby's attempts to shield her from it: she had run because it all hit too close to home. But there was no way to keep that from happening if she wanted to pursue any of this. And she had to pursue this. "I should probably let a few details slip next time, about my near escape. See if anyone picks up on it. If I get invited to the Serial Killer subcommittee."
Bobby regarded her, that crease in his brow not going away. "You're…okay with that?"
"Not in a million fucking years," Dutton said. "But it's a natural in, and it'd be stupid not to use it." She took a deep breath. "Time for a subject change, Marian. How's it going with the research?"
This time Bobby made a face like the milk in his coffee had gone off. "Not great." He pushed a stack of papers across the table, his thick scrawl covering so many pages she would have guessed it was the first draft of a Steven King novel. "Property records got me the owner of the house—The Gage Foundation—turns out it's a nonprofit. It's their one real asset as far as I can tell, which means they rent it out every chance they get. Their calendar doesn't go back as far as"—he waved a hand in the air, which Eames took to be a gesture standing in for the unspoken 'your drugging, assault, and near-death experience at the hands of a serial killer'—"but, it, uh, probably wouldn't help anyway. In the last month, half the days just say 'Private Rental.'"
"Which could mean anything," Eames agreed. "Damn. What about the social media angle?"
"I did my best to, ah, cross-reference the social media of professors at local universities with references to The Gage Foundation in their profiles. But, it's, uh, New York. There's a lot of universities-"
"—and no guarantee that all of their professors have caught up to the twenty-first century," Eames finished. She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Why would he make it easy for us?"
"It's possible there's an accomplice within the nonprofit as well," Bobby went on, warming to the subject. "Especially if they've evaded detection so far. I'm trying to narrow down who would have the, the most influence in bookings, or the most ability to obscure it—it's a small organization, but—"
"But a criminal history records search costs ninety-five dollars, and that adds up," Eames said. She smirked at Bobby's face. "I know things, Marian."
"Of course," Bobby said, fighting back a smile. "And we'd have to get exact names and dates of birth. Better to narrow the, the field."
Eames leafed through the papers without really seeing the notes; she trusted Bobby to fill her in on anything important. "I could maybe lean on Jeffries for something. Rap sheets have more details anyway."
Bobby frowned. "Isn't that—do you trust her?"
"To get this guy off the street? Yeah. To not throw me under the bus? Maybe." Eames pushed the papers back and took a bite of bacon that tasted much better than anything fifty percent off at a bodega had the right to. Damn this man's cooking skills. "It'll still all be puzzle pieces, anyway. Twenty bucks says we get a handful of arrests and no convictions. I'll bet if these assholes ever got caught, they lawyered up so hard superglue wouldn't stick to them."
"Maybe," Bobby allowed. "But people like this—money helps, but also…other people. They have people who do things for them, lackeys, people who…they can persuade to do things. Like take a fall."
It sounded believable.
It also sounded like a needle in a haystack.
"Can we do this?" It came out more plaintive than Eames wanted; she plowed on before she could regret it. "Are we kidding ourselves? There might not even be anything—there could be more than one—there's so much to do—"
"Hey." Bobby nudged her hand with the back of his coffee mug. "You know things."
Eames gave him a semi-baleful glare. "This is your pep talk?"
"You don't need a pep talk," Bobby said. "You're smart. You remember things, you put things together. You get people to open up, you play to their, their expectations and they don't see you coming. You're going to keep going to the union meetings, and I'm going to keep working the nonprofit angle. We'll find something."
"Hmph." Eames' throat was a little tight. That was what she got for prompting one of this asshole's inspirational speeches. "So." Time for a subject change. "Are you actually going to eat any of this breakfast, or are you full after devouring the entire internet?"
"Oh, I, uh, have an energy bar in my desk at work."
"Okay, but notice how you're not answering my question. Are you planning on eating anything, or is staring at me with a plateful of bacon a new kink?"
Bobby choked on his coffee.
"Careful, Marian." Eames passed him a napkin. "People will talk."
Bobby mopped up the coffee that had landed to the side of his plate.
"I'll, uh, have some eggs. I guess."
"Damn right you will. Can't have you passing out in the middle of detective work."
xxxxx
Dutton moved up slowly in the coffee line, half of her brain occupied with making small talk with Shirley, the middle-aged woman in front of her, the other half occupied with making sure that as they inched forward she stayed perfectly in Michelle's sightline. She smiled and laughed, and waited for the organizer to clock her.
She did, but didn't approach. Dutton forced herself to keep her smile wide, and not to pick at the edge of the Styrofoam cup with her fingernails.
She'd practically run away last time; Michelle just didn't want to scare her off.
She hadn't blown it. She hadn't.
The meeting covered a lot of similar ground as last time, even some of the same jokes, only the dates and times of meetings and subcommittees different. Dutton found she didn't mind; laughed along with the rest. There was something comforting in how she already knew what clip art would adorn what slide, what clapback would issue from what corner of the room.
This time at the end she joined the group picking up the dregs of the donuts; Michelle wasn't part of it, but she was close by, stacking chairs.
Dutton took a cruller, wrapped it in napkin and stuck it in her purse for later. Dithered for a few seconds, only partly for show.
"Need a hand?"
Michelle's eyes flicked up to hers, her face neutral. "'Preciate it."
They worked side by side for a few minutes, the only sounds the clanking of the chairs coming together on the carts, the occasional screech of ungreased metal when a particularly ancient one unwillingly folded flat again.
"Glad to see you back," Michelle said.
Dutton's heart jumped off-beat for a second, but she kept her face still. "Hmm."
"Wasn't sure you'd come a second time," Michelle went on. "Not everyone does."
"Wasn't sure either," Eames said.
"Extra glad to have you with us tonight, then," Michelle said. She slammed the last of the chairs into place on the cart, barely fitting it in; dusted her hands. "Coffee?"
Dutton hesitated. She didn't know this woman—she didn't know any of these women—only Bobby knew where she was—
It's a McDonald's, she reminded herself. You go stranger places with men you don't know every night. Just because this is with someone who might see you, see through you—
"No pressure," Michelle said. "I just thought—you look like you could use a talk."
Say yes! You kicked yourself for days after last time! Say yes!
Dutton cleared her throat. "Sure."
xxxxx
McDonalds was filled with so many hookers Dutton was tempted to try to think up a bad pun about Happy Meals.
One of the cashiers, an older Mexican-American woman, was glaring at them and muttering under her breath, but the rest of the staff looked like they had stopped giving a fuck about literally anything hours ago, and seemed unlikely to be roused to genuine emotion by anything less than a drink thrown in their faces. Dutton chose a seat where she could see the hostile employee—she wanted to know the second that woman decided this was enough of an outrage to call the police—but where the woman could not see her, while Michelle got their drinks.
The other hookers were ignoring the woman, and Dutton tried to take heart from that; this was a ritual, they would know if there were any danger. She would see the second any of them spotted a risk. This was why antelopes moved in herds.
Two coffees plunked down on the table in front of her, the familiar burnt smell more welcome than she would ever admit.
"What do I owe you?"
Michelle waved her words away. "My treat. Don't worry, I'm not hitting on you. My girlfriend would kill me."
Dutton took a long draught of the coffee before replying. "She knows you're…"
Michelle raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah? I don't lie to my partners."
"Sorry." Dutton looked down at her coffee again. In her lap, her left fist clenched, fingernails pressing into skin. Great, just great. Thirty seconds into the conversation and she had insulted the closest thing she had to an informant.
"It's fine. Didn't expect it from another pro, but—" Michelle shrugged. "C'est la vie."
Dutton felt her shoulders tense; did this woman think she was a cop? Was that what she was implying? She tried to keep her voice level: "Just because I'm not peachy keen on every aspect of this job doesn't make me any less a hooker than you are."
"Whoa, did I say that?" Michelle raised her hands, one still holding her coffee, in mock-surrender. "Slow down, girl."
"Right." Dutton didn't know if she believed her. "Sorry."
Michelle did the gesture again where it looked like she was sweeping Dutton's words to the side to throw out later. "Seriously, don't sweat it. It's definitely not the worst thing someone's said to me when I've sat them down for the hard pitch on volunteering. That involved something anatomically improbable with a pit bull."
Dutton smirked. "Were you recruiting my ex? That was one of his favorites."
Michelle gave a braying laugh. "Not unless he had some extensive surgery since then!" Her eyes softened, and her shoulders loosened; Dutton belated realized that she had been tense too. "Exes are rough, huh? Especially in this job."
Dutton hadn't dated in almost a decade, but she nodded. "Yeah."
"I was wondering…" Michelle picked at the plastic lid of her coffee, but didn't look away from Dutton. "When we talked last time…that poster. I was maybe—did you know any of them? The ones Ridgeway killed?"
Dutton shook her head. "No."
Michelle's shoulders loosened further; she smiled mischievously. "Not going to bite my head off for assuming your age?"
Dutton's smile was tight, like it had gone through the wash on the wrong setting. She could feel it cutting into her skin. Now or never. "Right timeline. Wrong serial killer."
Michelle's eyebrows shot off her face. "Damn. Shit. Sorry." She hesitated, and then: "Want to talk about it?"
Dutton took a deep breath. "Yes. No. Maybe? All or none of the above?"
"I hear that."
Dutton looked down at her coffee, partly to hide her face in case Michelle was secretly Sherlock Holmes in cargo pants, and partly because it was genuinely easier to do this when she didn't have to look in the other woman's eyes. "It wasn't friends—I mean, it might have been, there were women who I didn't hear from, but I don't know—it was—it was me."
A long in-drawn breath.
"He drugged me, got me in the back of his car. If he hadn't gotten distracted—there was enough time. It wore off. I got away, but—he's still out there."
"Shit," Michelle said softly.
"I guess I've been a little—uncertain about you guys," Dutton said. "Unions, nonprofits, just—groups in general. The place this guy picked me up at this swanky nonprofit that's supposed to be all about empowering women—you think nothing bad can happen somewhere where there's a goddamn swan fountain."
"Wait." Michelle sat up straight in her chair. "Are we talking about the Gage Foundation?"
Eames stared at her.
"You are. Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
Dutton's heart leapt into her throat. "You know them? What do you know about them?"
Michelle rested her elbows on the table and let her head fall into her hands kneaded her forehead with her fingers like she was trying to press herself into a different shape. She glanced around nervously before leaning forward, her voice low. "Damn, woman. Do you literally never talk to other hookers? Have you heard of message boards?"
Dutton bristled. "If this is your idea of outreach, maybe that explains why."
"Sorry, sorry." Michelle leaned back away from her, let her hands fall. She looked suddenly about ten years older, and twenty years more tired. "It's just—I thought we'd got the word out. The police didn't want to get up off their asses, but I thought—I thought people knew."
"They might know, now," Dutton said. A peace offering, and also true. "This was a long time ago."
"Yeah, it'd have to be, for you to get out," Michelle said slowly. "They're a lot more careful now."
Eames swallowed. "Tell me what I should know."