When Liz Shelton was ready, Monk led the Sens to the glass window. The translator lingered behind.
The window was covered with curtains. Though it was intended to minimize shock and cut off the odor of death, neither, in Monk's experience, was much help at moments like this.
From inside, Shelton slowly drew back the curtains. The child lay on a gurney, draped in a white sheet.
The parents gazed at her. It was the mother who broke first, emitting a muted shriek, hands covering her face. For what seemed a long time, the father did not react. Then he closed his eyes, still silent, and nodded.
* * *
Thuy Sen did not play near the shore, Monk learned through the translator. She did not swim, and did not like the bay. The water was too cold.
After a few minutes, Monk told the woman to take them home.
* * *
It was midmorning before Shelton finished the autopsy, and Monk had barely slept before returning to her office.
"She choked to death," the medical examiner said baldly. "But not on a sandwich. On semen."
Monk said nothing. Briefly, it struck him that Thuy Sen's older sister was in for a lifetime of guilt and anguish.
"We found semen in her mouth and throat and airways," Shelton continued. "One male can ejaculate three to five milligrams. More than enough to choke a nine-year-old girl."
Monk considered this. "Anything to show she didn't volunteer?"
"No. But judging from what you know, how likely does that seem? Even over there."
Monk answered with a shrug. "What else?" he inquired.
With a tentative air, Shelton steepled her fingers, resting them against her chin. "There was a hair snagged in her barrette. For all we know, it came from the bay, and hair identification by ethnicity is hardly an exact science. But more likely than not it's Negroid."
Again Monk said nothing. Neither needed to comment on the inflammatory images this might summon, even in San Francisco—a nine-year-old girl choking to death during forcible oral copulation with a black man. Whoever the sperm donor turned out to be, Monk's job was to find him.
* * *
For some moments, Terri had not touched her coffee.
" 'Him' turned out to be 'them,' " Monk said with quiet emphasis. "We found them both."
FOUR
MONK STUDIED THE LEMON RIND FLOATING IN THE TINY CUP OF espresso, incongruous in his paw of a hand. "Should have ordered a double," he observed. "Less rind, more caffeine."
Terri emptied her own cup, cold now, its contents bitter on her tongue. "Tell me about Flora Lewis."
* * *
They didn't find a witness for two fruitless days, spent going door-to-door in the crack-ridden streets of Bayview, hilly and sunny and stark, where black kids loitered on the pavement from childhood until, in their twenties, half the boys were dead or in jail. To outsiders, it was a foreign country—taxi drivers wouldn't go there, cops blew off domestic violence calls rather than stick their necks out, and the whole mess was sitting on a Superfund site, with exposure to buried poisons as toxic as the lives of many who were born there.
Once it had been a place of hope, its white, blue-collar residents joined during World War II by African American shipyard workers who remained there, thinking the jobs and sunny weather—best among the city's microclimates—might presage a better life than whatever they'd left behind. The jobs vanished; many blacks remained, predominant now, mingled with pockets of Tongans and Samoans, a few Asians, and remnants of the white home-owning classes—stranded in the houses they still owned, Monk knew, by an economy which otherwise had passed them by. Some, like Flora Lewis, saw Bayview as a prison.
She lived two blocks south of Thuy Sen's accustomed route to school. Cracking open the door of her tiny Edwardian home, she peered above a door chain at the two black men—Monk and Rollie Ainsworth—who had come there unannounced. Only when Monk thrust out identification and stated their purpose did Lewis let them in.
The next thing she did seemed odd. Going to the window, she craned her neck to peer out, one palsied hand drawing open lace curtains, her frail body still bent away from the window to conceal herself from view. When she spoke she did not turn.
"I'd have moved," she said, "but all I've got is my social security and my parents' house."
Glancing at Ainsworth, Monk saw his partner's shrewd, round face appraising her and concluding, as Monk had, that silence was best. "They live across the street," she told them.
Uttering this non sequitur, her voice was parched. Her eyes maintained their vigil. "Who?" Monk asked.
"The Price brothers, two boys, if you could call them that. Cars squealing up at night, men and trampy-looking girls streaming in and out, music getting louder all the time and more obscene." Her tone became quieter, to Monk, etched with bitterness. "It always felt to me like anything could happen—their grandmother locked up like a prisoner, the boys with no one to control whatever impulses they had."
"Tell me about them."
She faced Monk now. Behind her wire-rim glasses Monk saw hesitance and fear, and a grimace deepened the seams of her face, drawing down her mouth. "The older one's named Payton," she said. "Quick-moving, with a bad mouth, who thinks he's clever. Used to be bright-eyed and almost pretty-looking—you watch them turn cruel, over time, and it would break your heart if you could believe they still had hearts of their own. But the younger one scared me from the time that he was four or five. You could see he'd be a hulking brute even before he became one.
"Even more than his size, it was his expression. It never changed. You just looked at him, and saw no feeling." Her eyes closed. "I can only imagine . . ."
"Imagine what?"
Silent, Lewis shook her head. When her eyes opened again, she said softly, "She was there. With them."
"How did you know it was her?"
Reflexively, her eyes sought out the television to one corner of the cramped room—an ancient couch, a coffee table, photographs of a woman and man who must have been her parents. Though tense now, Monk forced himself to remain patient, calm.
"She was Asian." Lewis hesitated, then finished. "It was the day before her picture was on the news."
Ainsworth glanced at Monk. "Tell us exactly what you saw."
Lewis paused, as if to summon an image in her mind. "They're sitting on the porch with one of those big, boxy radios blaring this chanting kind of music—Payton all jittery with his head snapping from side to side. The big one, Rennell, is staring at the sidewalk like he's been hypnotized. Minutes pass with him not moving.
"Then she comes by."
The last phrase held a fateful certainty. "Can you describe her?" Monk asked.
"Asian," she repeated simply. "Straight black hair, and even without seeing her face I can tell by how she carries herself. Eyes straight ahead, fixed on the sidewalk, like they do. Acting like she doesn't notice them."
"But they noticed her."
Flora Lewis bit her lip. "It was the big one," she said with quiet anger. "Rennell.
"He stands. I see his mouth open, calling out—it's like a pantomime, because I can't hear him with all that barbaric chanting from their radio. But I see the girl hesitate for the briefest moment before she's moving again, still not looking up.
"That brings the big one off the porch. His mouth opens again, calling out." Lewis turned back toward the window, staring through the curtain as if at the remembered Asian child. "I can only imagine what he said. Suddenly, she's frozen there—petrified, more like it. Then she turns to face him.
"He comes down off the porch, towering over her. Payton's still twitching back and forth in his chair. She's standing with her back to me—you can see her glancing from one to the other, guessing at who scared her worse.
"Then Rennell says something else to her. She looks up at him, slowly shakes her head." Lewis finished in a monotone. "So he just reaches out and takes her by the arm."