Phantom Prey

saying fairy-fairy-fairy. ”
    “Yes, they do. You even dress like that. The waif look,” Shockley said. She added, “They call them Lolis, too. Loli is short for Lolita.”
    “Also lollipop,” Price said.
    “I’m looking for a woman; and I’ve been told that she is one,” Lucas said.
    “Like me,” Price said.
    “That’s what I’ve been told,” Lucas said.
    Shockley jumped in. “Karen Slade could be. She’s thin enough.”
    “She’s kind of tall,” Price said.
    Lucas put a check next to Slade’s name. “Thanks. I’ll call if I think of anything else.”
    “Do that,” Price said.
    Outside, he looked at his watch. It had been a half hour since he’d left Roy Carter’s; might be worth checking back. Or, he could go home.
    Got in the car, thought about it; what the hell, he could swing by. Five minutes, found a good parking space, only two houses down from Carter’s place. Up the stairs, knock on the door, still no response. But when he was turning away from the door, another door, sideways down the hall, popped open, and a woman stuck her head out.
    “Looking for Roy?”
    “Yup.” He took her in: a round-faced woman, unnaturally pale, with lipstick that looked almost black in the dim light of the hallway. She was dressed in a loose, black, ankle-length dress. Another one; he’d tapped into Goth Central.
    “He won’t be back until late,” she said. “He’s out.”
    “I’m a cop,” Lucas said. “I’m going to stick a card under the door. If you hear him come in, could you ask him to call me? Whatever time it is?”
    “Okay, but I’m going out myself,” she said.
    “If you hear him . . .”
    “Is this about that guy getting murdered at that bar?” She leaned in the door frame.
    “Yup. He might’ve talked to somebody that we’d like to find,” Lucas said.
    “Not that little fairy, is it?”
    Lucas’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, it is. You know her?”
    “No. But that’s where Roy is. She called him up.”
    “What?”
    “They’re hooking up tonight.”
    Carter had stopped back at his apartment after work—probably while Lucas was arguing with the woman behind the liquor store counter—had changed clothes, and was gone, hurrying down the steps. He met his neighbor, the Goth woman, whose name was Jean Brandt, on the way down, said, “Hey: that fairy called me. We’re going out,” and then he rattled on down the stairs and out the door.
    Lucas asked her, “You know where he goes? Where he might take her? What does he look like?”
    “I’ve got a picture of him,” she said, a worry-crinkle creasing her forehead. She went back into her apartment, came back to the door with a snapshot; Brandt and two men, in a park somewhere. “Roy’s on the right.” Lucas tilted the photo under the hall light: Roy was a tall man, six-four, thin, red-haired, pale eyes, bony shoulders, and big hands. Even in the park, he was dressed from head to foot in black. He had a silver earring piercing the upper ring of the only ear that Lucas could see.
    “You think he’s in trouble?” Jean asked.
    “I don’t know—I’d just like to talk to this woman,” Lucas said.
    “She’s apparently the last person to see Dick Ford alive.”
    “Well, knowing Roy—he’s always been a little retarded around women—I’d say he’s going to take her to the place he thinks will impress her the most. That’s probably November.”
    Lucas looked up: “November on Lyndale? I thought it closed.”
    “New management, but they kept the name,” she said. “Or he might go to Candy’s, but Candy’s is big on dancing and Roy doesn’t dance so much. And it’s loud. I think he wants to talk.”
    “Thanks,” Lucas said, and he turned back to the stairs.
    “If you want, I’ll ride along,” she offered. “If he’s not at November, maybe I could ask people that we know. Somebody will be there.”
    “Let’s go,” Lucas said.
    In the car, Brandt said, “Roy is really sweet, but, you know, he doesn’t get so far with women. I don’t know why, he’s really a nice guy. So this one sort of hit on him the other night, actually got his work number. He’s been shaky about it ever since. Hoping she’d call.”
    “Didn’t have a name?”
    “He didn’t tell it to me, if he did,” Jean said.
    “Did he know a young woman named Frances Austin? She was killed, it was in the papers? She was Goth, or somewhat Goth, hung out at A1.”
    “I don’t know. Roy hung out at A1 and he’s Goth. So