White Butterfly by Walter Mosley Page B

rest’a them is black? An’ how come they kill this coed an’ they killin’ B-girls all before this?”
    “You got the proof here that she was one of those kind of women.”
    He held up the photograph to prove his point.
    “Yeah,” I said. “But maybe that’s not the girl he killed.”
    “What?” Quinten slammed the picture down on his desk.
    “I mean, it’s the same body, the same life, but it was Robin Garnett got killed, not Cyndi Starr. I mean, they found her all dressed up like a coed, right? If it was the coed who was killed and not the stripper, then maybe there was some other reason fo’the murder, right?”
    “Maybe the killer knew her. Maybe he knew about her double life.” Quinten didn’t want any complications.
    “Yeah, I guess. He knew Juliette LeRoi, all right.”
    “What’s that?”
    I told him about the fight at Aretha’s and Gregory Jewel. Also about how Bonita Edwards didn’t know the other girls.
    “You got all this and you’re just coming in here now?”
    “Hey, man, calm down. I’m here. Pass what I told you to your partner an’ then let’s you an’ me go over to see the Garnetts.”
    “I don’t think so. I appreciate you wanting to help, but police work should be kept in the house. They have enough trouble with a Negro cop. What are they going to think about you?”
    I didn’t like the way he said that. “What do you think about me, Quinten?”
    A sneer flashed across Quinten’s face. He sat forward placing his big fists on the desk. “I think you’re rotten, Mr. Rawlins. You and your friend Raymond Alexander. Both of you belong in the penitentiary. But nobody wants to make that a priority. Everybody’s always got something better. Maybe you’ll help us catch this guy, probably you will. But whoever he is, he’s just crazy. He can’t help it. But you could. You’re a criminal, Ezekiel Rawlins. I might have to work with you, I do have to. But just because you have to wipe your ass doesn’t mean that you have to love shit.”
    Maybe if I hadn’t been drinking it wouldn’t have hurt. I don’t know. But everybody was on me. Regina and Gabby Lee and Quinten Naylor. I felt like I needed a drink. I did need a drink.
     
     
    THE LOS ANGELES PHONE BOOK was my best friend in those days. I went north to Pico Boulevard and then west until I hit Hauser. The Garnetts were five blocks farther north from there.
    They lived in a two-story Spanish-style house that shared a large lawn with a weeping willow and a sloppy-looking St. Bernard on a long chain. The whole yard was surrounded by a low cement fence that had been treated to look like adobe. The roof was made from curved red tiles. Terra-cotta. Probably imported from Mexico or maybe even Italy. Two sharkish-looking Caddies were parked in the driveway. Five boys’ bicycles were parked on the lawn.
    I took the sweater, the yearbook, and the envelope of her working photos and put them in a large brown paper bag. Then I went up to the door and pressed the button. A buzzer went off in the house. That surprised me. I expected bells, Spanish bells to toll or chime, at least to ring. A buzzer was what you heard in a hardware store.
    A boy in his early teens swung the door open wide. He was still young enough to have feminine features and so greatly resembled his dead sister’s photographs. His face darkened for a moment when he saw me. Maybe he was expecting one of his little boyfriends rambling up on a J. C. Higgins.
    “Hi.” He had a beautiful all-American-boy grin.
    “I’m lookin’ fo’your mother or father.” I smiled too.
    “Dad’s out but Mom’s here. I’ll get her.”
    “Mom!” he shouted as soon as he was out of sight.
    He left the door open, either out of trust or ignorance, and I could see clear through the house. The living room was sunken and plush with white furry furniture. The back wall was mostly glass and looked out into the patio, backyard, and swimming pool.
    The white woman, who was scolding the