Candace set the pick back in her glass and patted the seat beside her. “Come here, Salsa.”
The dog scampered out of its bed and jumped onto the daybed.
“Not that I don’t enjoy your rapt attention, boys,” Candace said as she petted the small dog, “but did you have many more pertinent questions? I do have to get dressed eventually.”
Larkin said to Doyle, “Will you show her a picture of the facial reconstruction.”
Doyle nodded, pulled his phone from his pocket, and opened the photos app as he stood. “Do you recognize this girl?” He took a few steps toward Candace and turned the screen around. “We estimate she was between fifteen and seventeen years old at her time of—”
“Oh my God.” Candace grabbed Doyle’s arm and yanked him closer to stare at the picture of the clay bust. “Oh myGod,” she repeated, sounding utterly horrified. “That’s Sweetpea!” Candace let go of Doyle and pointed at the screen. “Oh… sorry. You’ve got an incoming call.”
Doyle turned the phone around before saying to Larkin, “I’m going to take this.”
Larkin nodded, and once Doyle had stepped out of the room to accept the call, he asked Candace, “Did she ever tell you her real name.”
Candace pressed a hand to her chest like she had acid reflux. She shook her head.
“It was Mia Ramos.”
“Mia….”
“What about her age.”
“She said she was nineteen, but no way in hell. She was jailbait,” Candace replied. She patted her chest with the side of her fist a few times before burping. She made a face.
Doyle’s deep baritone resonated from the hallway, but Larkin forced himself to not be distracted by listening to the exact words and instead asked Candace, “How did you know Mia.”
“She worked at the Dollhouse. I’d moved to LA in ’85, but I came back at least once a year to put on my Bomb on Broadway shows.” Candace still looked unwell.
“Do you need some water.”
“I need somegin,” she said, voice rising sharply. She looked directly at Larkin. “Sweetpea is dead? I mean—right? That’s why you’re asking?”
Larkin only nodded.
“Poor thing….”
“You said she worked at the Dollhouse.”
“Yeah. I met her in ’86 I think. She was as cute as a button and didn’t belonganywherenear the Deuce. I’ve never been the maternal type, so I can’t say why I felt such motherly instincts around her, but she imprinted on me like—” Candace paused, snapped her fingers a few times as if to jog her memory, then said, “Like a baby duck! I gave her my number in LA.”
“Did she call.”
“A few times. She wanted to move out there, but I told her to reconsider. It was no place for a kid. Sweetpea said she couldn’t go home—she’d run away years ago—but she didn’t want to do the peep show gig anymore.”
“Do you know where she was living in the city during this time.”
Candace shooed Salsa to the floor before standing and returning to the liquor cabinet. “I sort of got the impression she was homeless,” she answered over her shoulder. “Or maybe lived on a lot of well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning people’s couches. At least, until she got engaged to Earl.”
Larkin stood. “Please expound.”
Candace turned sideways at his tone and lowered the bottle of gin before she could pour. “Sweetpea told me she’d gotten engaged to a man named Earl. He worked at the Dollhouse—one of the spunk cleaners.”
“Earl Wagner.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
