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the crime scene. He parked his van and
retrieved a can of Sprite and a Diet Pepsi from his cooler.
    He strolled over to her and sat down opposite
her. She looked up from the book she was reading and peered at him
over her cheap reading glasses. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back
in a pony tail that was shoulder length—and in need of washing. She
was pretty, with bright blue eyes, but was thin and appeared to be
undernourished. Her glasses detracted from her otherwise
finely-shaped face—they were too large and had ugly, black frames.
Definitely off-the-shelf KMart. Her clothes were early Salvation
Army—faded blue T-shirt and tan pedal pushers. She wore well-worn
black sneakers on her feet with white socks.
    “Soda?” he asked. “Take your pick.”
    Her blue eyes bore into his as she took the
can of Sprite and popped the top. She took a long swig.
    “Thanks. I was thirsty. Don’t think I’m
stupid—talking to a stranger. I saw you follow my sister into that
alley. You a cop?” she said after she rubbed her mouth on the back
of her arm.
    Sam didn’t answer her question, figuring she
might talk to him more openly if she thought he was a cop.
    “That was your sister? What’s her name?”
queried Sam, wanting to put the child at ease before telling her
that her sister was dead.
    “Yes. Her name’s Rachel Rogers. She’s 18, I’m
13. I’m Rebecca Rogers. People call me Becky.”
    “I’m Sam Crown. People call me Sam. What was
your sister doing with those men in the alley?”
    “Well, Sam, you don’t look that stupid! She
was going to give them BJs. A quick $20. We need the money,” said
the pitiful-looking girl. “I heard a shot. Is my sister OK?”
    Sam squirmed on the hard bench and popped the
top on the Diet Pepsi, searching for the right words.
    Becky continued, “She’s not going to meet me
here, is she?”
    “She was supposed to meet you here?” Sam
asked, welcoming the delay.
    “Yeah. We always pick a place to meet in case
of trouble. Tell me about Rachel. Is she arrested?”
    “No, she’s not under arrest, Becky. She’s . .
. dead. Those guys killed her,” Sam finally blurted out.
    “Oh, fuck! Shit!” cried Becky as tears came
to her eyes.
    She put her head down on her arms on the
table and Sam let her cry. After a couple of minutes, she sat up,
eyes red, face wet.
    “Do you have a tissue? Or a hanky?” she
sniffled.
    Sam handed her his handkerchief. Fortunately,
it was clean.
    “Thanks. I’m sorry. I told her she would get
in bad trouble if she kept hooking. We could’ve made it without her
doing that. Somehow,” moaned Becky.
    “Where are your parents?” asked Sam.
    “Long gone, thank God! That’s all I’m gonna
say if you’re a cop!”
    “I’m not a cop, Becky. I used to be, but now
I’m a private detective. I just happened to be there on other
business. I shot and wounded one of the men who hurt your sister.
They’re both in jail by now. They’ll be properly punished—I’ll see
to that! Now, what are we going to do with you? Any relatives?
Whose car were you in?” asked Sam.
    “No relatives. That’s Rachel’s car. All my
clothes and stuff are in it. We live in it. We were trying to save
money so we could get an apartment or something. That’s why Rachel
was hooking—extra money. She worked at Denny’s during the morning.
I do some tutoring. Shit! We have a job at 7 o’clock!” exclaimed
Becky.
    “Job? What kind of job?” asked Sam.
    “Every Saturday we go to this college guy’s
apartment. It’s over near UCI. It’s shower day. While Rachel . . .
does him, I get to take a shower and wash my hair. Then afterwards,
I tutor him in calculus for an hour. I get $20,” explained the
girl.
    Sam wasn’t sure that he had heard her
correctly. While her sister screwed the guy, Becky took a shower,
then tutored him in calculus?
    “Er, Becky. I think you had better explain
that to me. Does that guy . . . touch you?”
    “No. Only Rachel,” she answered as