The man enjoyed watching streetwalkers. He liked how they grouped on the corner and pranced up and down the sidewalks, mostly in pairs. He found them to be much feistier than call girls and escorts, prone to easily losing their temper.
For example, right now, he saw one cursing a bunch of uncouth young guys in a slow-moving vehicle for taking her picture. The man didn't blame her one bit. After all, she was here to do business, not to serve as scenery.
Where's their respect? he thought with a smirk. Kids these days.
Now the guys were laughing at her and yelling obscenities. But they couldn't match her colorful retorts, some of them in Spanish. He liked her style.
He was slumming tonight, parked along a row of cheap motels where streetwalkers gathered. The other girls were less vivacious than the one who had done the cursing. Their attempts at sexiness looked awkward by comparison, and their come-ons were crude. As he watched, one hiked up her skirt to show her skimpy underpants to the driver of a slowly passing car. The driver didn't stop.
He kept his eye on the girl who had first drawn his attention. She was stomping around indignantly, complaining to the other girls.
The man knew he could have her if he wanted her. She could be his next victim. All he had to do to get her attention was to drive along the curb toward her.
But no, he wouldn't do that. He never did that. He'd never approach a hooker on the street. It was up to her to approach him. It was the same even with whores he met through a service or a brothel. He'd get them to meet him alone somewhere separately without ever asking directly. It would seem like their idea.
With some luck, the feisty girl would notice his expensive car and trot right on over. His car was wonderful bait. So was the fact that he dressed well.
But however the night ended, he had to be more careful than last time. He'd been sloppy, dropping her body over that ledge and expecting her to sink.
And such a stir she had created! An FBI agent's sister! And they'd called in big guns from Quantico. He didn't like it. He wasn't out for publicity or fame. All he wanted to do was indulge his cravings.
And didn't he have every right? What healthy adult man didn't have his cravings?
Now they were going to send divers down in the lake to look for bodies. He knew what they might find there, even after some three years. He didn't like that at all.
It wasn't just out of concern for himself. Oddly, he felt bad for the lake. Having divers probe and poke into its every submerged nook and cranny struck him as rather obscene and invasive, an inexcusable violation. After all, the lake hadn't done anything wrong. Why should it be harassed?
Anyway, he wasn't worried. There was no way they were going to trace either victim back to him. It simply wasn't going to happen. He was through with that lake, though. He hadn't yet decided where to deposit his next victim, but he was sure he would come to a decision before the night was over.
Now the vivacious girl was looking at his car. She started walking toward him, with lots of sass in her step.
He rolled down the passenger window and she poked her head in. She was a dark-skinned Latina, heavily made-up with thick lip liner, colorful eye shadow, and fierce arched eyebrows that seemed to be tattoos. Her earrings were big gold-painted crucifixes.
"Nice car," she said.
He smiled.
"What's a nice girl like you doing out so late?" he asked. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"Maybe you'd like to tuck me in," she said, smiling.
Her teeth struck him as remarkably clean and straight. Indeed, she looked remarkably healthy. That was pretty rare out here on the streets, where most of the girls were "tweakers," in various stages of meth addiction.
"I like your style," he said. "Very chola."
Her smile broadened. He could see that she took being called a Latina gangbanger as a compliment.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Socorro."
Ah, "socorro," he thought. Spanish for "help."
"I'll bet you give great socorro," he said in a leering tone.
Her deep brown eyes leered right back. "You look like maybe you could use some socorro right now."
"Maybe I could," he said.
But before they could start settling terms, a car pulled into the space right behind him. He heard a man call out from the driver window.
"?Socorro!" he yelled. "?Vente!"
The girl drew herself up with a rather lame show of indignation.
"?Porqué?" she yelled back.
"Vente aquí, ?puta!"
The man detected a trace of fear in the girl's eyes. It couldn't be because the man in the car had called her a whore. He guessed that the man was her pimp, checking on her to see how much cash she had brought in so far tonight.
"?Pinche Pablo!" She muttered the all-purpose insult under her breath. Then she walked toward the car.
The man sat there, wondering if she was going to come back, still wanting to do business with him. Either way, he didn't like it. Waiting around was not his style.
His interest in the girl suddenly vanished. No, he wouldn't bother with her. She had no idea how lucky she was.
Besides, what was he doing slumming like this? His next victim ought to be classier.
Chiffon, he thought. He'd almost forgotten about Chiffon. But maybe I've just been saving her for a special occasion.
He could wait. It didn't have to be tonight. He drove away, gloating over his show of self-restraint, despite his enormous cravings. He considered that one of his best personal qualities.
He was, after all, a very civilized man.
