Free DeVante's Coven by SM Johnson

like. He hoped he wouldn’t puke. Fifteen. Pretty young to be found in a heap of limbs near Treasure Island casino, dead of nothing anybody had yet been able to determine.
    Nelson smacked the radio with untoward violence. “Pick a station, for Christ’s sake.”
     
    The good news was that nobody had touched the body. The girl was slumped behind a small row of trashcans, definitely dead. Lark stared down at her. He wasn’t going to puke. There was nothing outwardly sickening about the scene except for the fact that she was so dead and so young. She had bright blonde hair cut close to her skull and her eyes were closed as if in sleep. Eye shadow on her lids sparkled. Lark pictured her laughing, the sparkles falling onto her sweet cheeks, cheeks still puffed with baby-fat. His stomach heaved. He took a deep breath. It was possible he might puke.
    “Do we know anything about her? Who called it in?”
    An officer that wasn’t fighting off curious on-lookers answered. “Who always calls it in? Just somebody walking by. We’ve got a couple of bystanders, punks, really, waiting in the car over there,” he pointed, “who claimed to know her. Haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet. And we found this shirt.” He held up a clear plastic bag that contained a white shirt. “In a garbage can two blocks over. There’s a smear of blood on the sleeve and a couple of drops on the collar.”
    Lark nodded then walked over to the police cruiser and peered in. ‘Punks’ was an understatement. Skateboard wheels jutted up between their knees, and both of them were intent on repetitively slapping the wheels with their palms. Spin. Whirrrrrrr. Spin. Amusement fit for nervous teens and autistic children.
    Lark opened the front passenger door, slid in, and turned to look through the grate at the two boys. “Hey fellas.”
    “Hey, man.”
    “Hello, Sir.”
    Lark could tell which boy had a healthy father figure. “So I hear you know that poor girl over there.”
    “Seen her around,” the polite boy answered.
    “Where’ve you seen her around?”
    “Places.” This from the other kid.
    “Right.” Lark paused to think. “Listen guys, I really appreciate your hanging around and telling us you know this chic. What I need from you is whatever information you can give me that will help me figure out who this girl is, what’s her name, where’s her family. Can you get on that page with me?”
    The polite kid was nodding. The other one looked like he was ready for a nap. Lark concentrated on the one with manners. “Where, exactly, did you see her around? Like in a coffee bar, on a street corner? Do you think she’s a runaway, a prostitute, neither, both?”
    “Yeah, I think she’s a prostitute. I thought she was cute, you know, and I thought maybe we could talk. So I’d kinda hang around—over by the Dairy Queen up on Grove. But she wouldn’t give me the time of day, man. Bummer. She hung with another girl, a girl with long blonde braids, real smiley girl. But I don’t know their names. I just wanted a chance to talk, you know, maybe hit a Rave or something. But they blew me off every time.”
    Lark was impressed. The uniforms managed to hang onto a decent witness. “That’s good info. You think I can find this other girl up on Grove?”
    “Probably. Seen them around up there a lot. Seen the other girl on the corner of Main and Cypress the other night, too.”
    “Thanks.” Lark pulled out his notebook. “That helps. Let me get your addresses and phone numbers. You know, got to keep a record of everybody I talk to.” They cooperated. Even the duller kid seemed all right now that he realized they were gonna get to leave. Lark dug around in the glove box and found a couple of McDonald’s gift certificates. Perfect. Some of the patrol cops kept stashes of these certificates to bribe kids and street people to move on. Worked pretty well. He got out of the car and let the boys out. “Thanks, you’ve helped a lot,” he