“I feel sandbagged.”
“Not at all,” Cope said. “You are his superior, but that doesn’t mean you should be babysitting him, right? I’m your superior, do I babysit you?”
Muse fumed.
“Investigator Tremont has been here a long time. He has friends and respect. That’s why I’m giving him this opportunity. He wants to go to the press with this in a big way. Make a formal complaint. I asked him to have this meeting. Be reasonable. Let him invite Mr. Gaughan, so he can see how we work in an open and nonhostile fashion.”
They all looked at her.
“Now I will ask again,” Cope said to her. His eyes met hers. “Do you have any comments on what Investigator Tremont just said?”
Cope had a smile on his face now. Not a big one. Just the corners of his mouth twitching. And she suddenly understood.
“I do,” Muse said.
“The floor is yours.”
Cope sat back now and put his hands behind his head.
“Let’s start with the fact that I don’t think the victim was a prostitute.”
Cope raised his eyebrows as though this were the most stunning sentence anyone had ever uttered. “You don’t?”
“No.”
“But I saw her clothes,” Cope said. “I heard Frank’s report just now. And the location of the body—everyone knows that’s where hookers hang out.”
“Including the killer,” Muse said. “That’s why he dumped her there.”
Frank Tremont burst out laughing. “Muse, you’re full of crap. You need evidence, sweetie, not just intuition.”
“You want evidence, Frank?”
“Sure, let’s hear it. You got nothing.”
“How about her skin color.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she is Caucasian.”
“Oh, this is precious,” Tremont said, holding up both palms. “Oh, I love this.” He looked at Gaughan. “You getting this down, Tom, because this is simply priceless. I suggest that maybe, just maybe, a prostitute isn’t priority one and I’m a bigoted Neanderthal. But when she claims that our victim can’t possibly be a whore because she’s white, well, that’s solid police work.”
He wagged a finger in her direction. “Muse, you need a little more time on the streets.”
“You said that there were six other murdered prostitutes.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Do you know that all six were African American?”
“That don’t mean squat. Maybe the other six were—I don’t know—tall. And this one was short. That mean she wasn’t a hooker?”
Muse walked over to the bulletin board on Cope’s wall. She pulled a photograph from her envelope and tacked it up. “This was taken at the crime scene.”
They all looked.
“It’s the crowd behind the police tape,” Tremont said.
“Very good, Frank. But next time raise your hand and wait until I call on you.”
Tremont crossed his arms. “What are we supposed to be looking at?”
“What do you see here?” she asked.
“Hookers,” Tremont said.
“Exactly. How many?”
“I don’t know. You want me to count?”
“Just an estimate.”
“Maybe twenty.”
“Twenty-three. That’s good, Frank.”
“And your point?”
“Please count how many of them are white.”
No one had to look long to see the answer: zero.
“Are you now trying to tell me, Muse, that there are no white hookers?”
“There are. But very few in that area. I went back three months. According to the arrest files, no Caucasian has been arrested for solicitation within a three-block radius during that entire time period. And as you pointed out, her fingerprints aren’t on file. How many local prostitutes can you say that about?”
“Plenty,” Tremont said. “They come in from out of state, stay a while, die or move on to Atlantic City.” Tremont spread his hands. “Wow, Muse, you’re great. I might as well quit now.”
He chuckled. Muse did not.
Muse pulled out more photographs and put them up. “Take a look at the victim’s arms.”
“Right, so?”
“No needle marks, not one. Prelim tox shows no illegal drugs in her system. So again, Frank, you tell me: How many white hookers in the Fifth Ward aren’t junkies?”
That slowed him down.
“She’s well nourished,” Muse went on, “which means a little but not much today. Plenty of hookers are well nourished. No major bruises or breaks prior to this incident, also unusual for a hooker working this area. We can’t tell much about her dental work because most of her teeth were knocked out—those that are left were well taken care of. But take a look at this.”
She put up another huge photograph on the bulletin board.
“Shoes?” Tremont said.
“Gold star, Frank.”
Cope’s glance told her to tone down the sarcasm.
“And hooker shoes,” Tremont continued. “Stiletto heel, do-me pumps. Look at those ugly puppies you’re wearing, Muse. You ever wear heels like those?”
“No, I don’t, Frank. How about you?”
That got a chuckle from the room. Cope shook his head.
“So what’s your point?” Tremont asked. “They’re straight out of the hooker catalog.”
“Look at the bottom of the soles.”
She used a pencil to point.
“What am I supposed to see?”
“Nothing. That’s the point. No scuff marks. Not one.”
“So they’re new.”
“Too new. I had the photo enlarged.” She put up another photograph. “Not one single scratch. No one has walked in them. Not even once.”
The room went quiet.
“So?”
“Good comeback, Frank.”
“Up yours, Muse, this doesn’t mean—”
“By the way, she had no semen in her.”
“So? Maybe this was her first trick of the night.”
“Maybe. She also has a tan that you need to examine.”
“A what?”
“A tan.”
He tried to look incredulous, but he was losing his support. “There’s a reason, Muse, why these girls are called street hookers. Streets, you see, are outside. These girls work outside. A lot.”
“Forgetting the fact that we really haven’t had much sun lately, the tan lines are wrong. They cut up over here”—she pointed to the shoul- ders—“and there’s no tan near the abdomen—the area is totally pale. In short, this woman wore shirts, not bikini tops. And then there’s that bandana found clutched in her hand.”