"It's hers. She paid four hundred thousand for it, cash."
"Jesus, her daddy leave her money?"
"She earned it. She was an escort."
"A what?"
"A call girl. She started at four-fifty an hour, was featured in Playboy and her rate jumped to nine hundred."
"For one hour?"
"Plus tip. Three grand for all night, and she gave it up to entertain the old man."
"Jesus Christ," her dad said, with maybe ten bucks in his jeans from the six hundred she'd given him, "and you didn't introduce me?"
2
Delsa got the call from Richard Harris at home, six in the morning, barely light out, Delsa in his skivvies and a wool sweater, cold in the house, waiting for the coffee to perk. Harris said the firemen had to secure the place before anybody could go inside. Mostly smoke and water damage, windows broken.
Delsa said, "Who's dead?"
"Three guys in the basement we saw through the window. You go in this pen around back, all mud and dog shit. A pit bull in there's shaking he's so scared. A pit bull. There's a dog treadmill in the living room, a big-screen TV, PlayStation, X-Box, coloring book and crayons, and this rig called a Love Swing, still in the box. You know what I'm talking about?"
"I've heard of it," Delsa said.
"I'll bring the instructions, show how it works."
"Just the three guys in the house?"
"Yeah, but they don't live here. It's an old duplex two blocks west of Tiger Stadium, an empty building on the corner and then this house. The woman in the other half is Rosella Munson, thirty-four, medium dark, chunky. She says the guy rents the burnt-out flat goes by the name Orlando. Mid-twenties, slim, light shade, wears his hair in rows. Lives here with his girlfriend Tenisha."
"Kids?"
"No, but Rosella's got three, none over seven years old. She called the fire department around four A.M. and got her kids out. Now she's back in there packing to move."