You stupid shithead, he thought to himself. To let a dumb hooker get you like that. Your daughter is a good kid. Why the fuck do you go looking for trouble when there is none?

He peeled back his soaked jacket. His arm was still bleeding although the scarlet stream had reduced to slow seepage. The flesh had already begun to swell and throb. He had to get out of there.

He saw her out of the corner of his eye and felt he should say something, but nothing came out. It was she who approached him, offering him a roll of bandages. He took it with a nod and began to wrap his wounds.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry I hit you like I did,” he said. “I was just trying to get you off of me.”

“I’m sorry I bit you like I did,” she said. “I was trying to get you off of me. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Where’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy?” he asked.

“Don’t know.” She pulled out a cigarette. “You gonna arrest me?”

“No.”

“Are you really a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Whacha doing here?”

Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out Lindsey’s picture. The redhead cautiously approached him to take a look.

“Don’t know her,” she said. “How long has she been missing?”

“She’s not missing. She’s dead.”

The girl shuddered. He looked at her and saw a deep red palm print spread across her face.

“I slapped you pretty hard,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Are you kidding?” She shrugged. “Man, that’s just a warm-up for half the kinkies I get.”

He shook his head in disgust, at the perverts, at himself.

“Why’d you stare at me like that?”

“You remind me of my daughter.”

She let go with a machine-gun laughter.

“I’ve heard that before.”

He pulled out his wallet and flipped to Cindy’s picture. The girl’s eyes increased several diameters.

“God, I really do.” She grinned. “No wonder you went cuckoo. Who’s the black-haired girl? Your other daughter?”

He frowned.

“My girlfriend.”

She giggled.

“Sorry.”

“I’ve got to go.” He straightened up and began retreating.

“Hey, Cop or whatever your name is?”

“What?”

“Give me the picture of the dead girl. I’m more likely to dig up dirt than you are.”

He handed her the snapshot of Lindsey and his card.

“Decker,” she said out loud. “It says here you work Juvey.”

“I’m on loan to Homicide.”

“Okay, Decker,” she announced. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Kiki. But you don’t contact me. I contact you.”

“Fine,” Decker said. “Bye, Kiki.”

“Hey, don’t informants get paid?”

“Only if they produce.”

“Where are you going?”

“To take care of my arm.” He walked away, but she followed him. A fucking gosling, he thought. She’d imprinted.