White Butterfly by Walter Mosley

that. Maybe more.”
    “What was this Sylvia girl like?”
    “Raven. Long raven hair and black eyes and white skin so pale that it was always a shock t’look at her.”
    “Where’s she now?”
    Lips shook his head. “Don’t know that either. She stayed a couple’a days when Cyndi got back but then she went. That was ’bout two months ago. Yeah, them girls was thick.”
    “Cyndi have a job?”
    “She’d take off her clothes down at Melodyland.”
    “What room was hers?”
    “The purple. Three doors down on the other side.”
    I thanked him for his help and toasted his virility.
    Before I left he said, “You drinkin’ pretty heavy there, boy. Better slow it down some.”
    “I got a lot on my mind, old man. Too much.”
    “You ain’t gonna have much of a mind left if you keep on like that.”
    I laughed. “I’m still young, Lips. I can take it.”
    “I seen men turn old in six months under that bottle, man. I seen’em die in a year.”
     
     
    I USED MY POCKETKNIFE, pried open the lock with no trouble.
    Cyndi Starr’s room had no history. Everything was right then. The single mattress on the floor in the corner. The signed photographs of Little Richard and Elvis Presley tacked to the wall. There were three partially eaten cans of pork and beans in the sink, each one with a spoon handle sticking out. A cardboard box made her night table. The Formica-top dining table was covered with movie magazines and one hardcover book. That was a thick brown tome entitled
Industrial Psychology.
    “Can I help you?” The voice behind me was musical and delicate.
    When I turned I was met by a small, fair man. His skin was almost white. He had a sparse goatee, long eyelashes, and brown suede pants and shirt. His shoes were made from blue fake alligator skin.
    “No,” I told him.
    He cocked his head to the side and looked me up and down with a hint of a smile on his lips. He met my eye and blinked slowly. “Then what you doin’ in here?”
    “Lookin’ fo’ Cyndi.”
    He looked around the room. “She ain’t here. An’ even if she was, why you be openin’ her do’ if she don’t answer?”
    I was nervous in front of this brazen little man. His frank stares and insinuating smiles, coupled with the alcohol, made me uncomfortable.
    “Ain’t you heard, man?” I asked.
    “Heard what?” His eyes hardened into the question.
    “She’s dead. Murdered by the man been killin’ them girls.”
    “No.” His lower lip trembled. He clasped his hands and took a step toward me.
    “Raped her and brutalized her and then mutilated her body.” I nodded. I felt better now that my inquisitor was disturbed.
    He took another step and grabbed my sleeve.
    “No,” he said again. His eyes were begging me.
    “An’ I’m here fo’ the police… ”
    He didn’t give me enough time to finish. The little man stepped away from me, putting his hands on his thighs. His face was hard and unyielding. He backed straight to the door and then turned. He was gone in less than three heartbeats.
    I looked around a little bit more. I found a yearbook from Los Angeles High School, the class of ’55, and a folder full of professional photos of Cyndi. In one shot she posed naked, except for a G-string and her fingertips, feigning surprise on an empty stage. The spotlight on her was in the shape of a butterfly against the black backdrop. The White Butterfly. In a corner there was a box of clothes. She had everything in there, from a UCLA letter sweater to a pair of glitter-encrusted high heels.
    I studied another of the photos for a while. It was her looking over her bare shoulder at the camera. The face was hard and beautiful. She wasn’t healthy in that photograph. None of the force or sensuality in that snarl appeared in her college photo. I understood why no one but John had recognized her. Cyndi Starr was a different woman on Hollywood Row.
    I felt like a child’s pallbearer going down the stairs with her box of