MILO PUNCHED THE MDT's keypad, ran a search on Salazar, Michelle.
The screen lit up. Three hits: Michelle Angela, 47, with a record for larceny1, Michelle Sandra, 22, imprisoned2 in Arizona for manslaughter, and Michelle Leticia, 26, arrested two years ago for prostitution, a year after that for possession of narcotics3.
"There you go," I said. "The age is perfect."
"Echo Park. Let's go— Would you recognize her?"
"No, it was dark," I said. "Maybe."
Michelle Salazar lived in a two-story, peach-colored sixplex on a twisting street one block east of Micheltorena and two blocks north of Sunset. A brown sky hung low over the potholes5, boxy hieroglyphics6 sang gang sagas7, small children played in the dust. Two doors up a cluster of shaved-head young men in white tank tops and baggy8 pants crowded an old white van, sharing cigarettes and beer and lean looks.
As we got out of the unmarked, some of the beer drinkers watched us. Milo's gun hand was relaxed but in the right place as he threw them a salute9. Big group effort not to respond. We were in Ramparts Division, where a police scandal had broken a couple of years ago—CRASH officers forming their own criminal gang. LAPD claimed the bad cops had been weeded out. LAPD had denied the existence of bad cops for too long to have any credibility.
The lock on the building's front door was missing. Inside, a dark central hall was ripe with the gamy perfume of too-old menudo. Mailboxes set into the right-hand wall were padlocked and unmarked. Milo knocked on the first door, got no answer, tried the next unit and received a shouted "Si?" in response.
"Policia." Reciting the word quietly, but there was no way to make it inviting11.
Long pause, then a woman said, "Eh?"
"Policia."
"Senora, donde esta Michelle Salazar, par favor?"
Nothing.
"Senora?"
"Numero seis." A radio was turned up loud enough to block out further discourse12. We made our way to the stairs.
Different smells up on the second floor: sour laundry, urine, orange soda13.
Milo rapped on number 6. Another female voice said, "Yeah?" and the door opened six inches before he could respond. Held in place by a loose chain, bisecting a woman's face. One watery14 brown eye, half a parched15 lip, sallow skin.
"Michelle Salazar? Detective Sturgis—" The door began to close, and he blocked it with his foot, reached around, undid16 the chain.
I didn't recognize her, but somehow I knew it was her.
Last time I'd seen her, she'd had two arms.
She wore a green nylon robe with moth17 holes on the lapels. Thirty pounds heavier than when I'd watched her dance with Lauren. A once-pretty face had puffed18 in all the wrong places, and sprays of pimples19 crusted her forehead and chin. The same luxuriant mop of jet black hair. One hand held a cigarette with a gravity-defying ash. Her left sleeve was tied back at elbow length. Empty space from the shoulder down.
"Oh, shit," she said. "I didn't do anything—please leave me alone."
"I'm not here to hassle you, Michelle."
"Yeah, right." The room behind her was squalid with dirty clothes and old food and clumps20 of what looked like dog waste on gray linoleum21. As if confirming that, a small, hairless thing with a white-fringed head pranced22 across my field of vision. Seconds later a high-pitched yelp23 sounded.
"It's okay, baby," said Michelle. The dog mewed a few more times before withdrawing to tremulous silence.
"What is that, a Mexican hairless?" said Milo.
"Like you give a shit. Peruvian Inca Orchid24." Her voice slurred25, and her breath was sharp with alcohol. A blue bruise26 smeared27 the left side of her neck.
Milo pointed28 to the mark. "Someone get rough with you?"
"Nah," she said. "Just playing around. I'm tired, man—go hassle someone else. Every time you guys got free time, it's always here."
"Police harassment29, huh."
"How foolish to waste time here," said Milo. "Place like this, a veritable church."
Michelle rubbed her single arm against the front of her robe. "Just leave me alone."
"Ramparts guys visit a lot, huh?"
"Like you don't know."
"I don't. I'm West L.A."
"Then you got lost."
"This isn't about you, Michelle. It's about Lauren Teapie."
Two rapid blinks. "What?"
"West L.A. Homicide." He showed her his card. "Lauren Teague got killed." Yet another recitation of the details. I hadn't gotten used to it, and my gut31 clenched32.
Michelle began to shake. "Oh, God, oh, Jesus—you're not lying?"
"Wish I was, Michelle. Can we come in?"
"It's a shitpile—"
"I don't care about interior decorating. I want to talk about Lauren."
"Yeah, but—"
"Couldn't care less about your medicine cabinet, Michelle. This is about someone making Lauren dead—"
The tremors33 continued. She reached around with her right hand, took hold of the empty left sleeve, and squeezed. "It's not that — it's . . . There's someone in there."
"Someone you don't want listening in?"
"No, it's—" She glanced back. "He didn't know Lauren."
"Long as he doesn't come out shooting, he's no problem for me."
"Hold on," she said. "Let me just go explain."
"You wouldn't be trying to rabbit, Michelle?"
"Sure, I'm gonna jump out of a two-story window — one of you wants to wait down below to catch me, fine."
"How about this," said Milo. "Have lover boy show himself, then go back to sleep or whatever he's doing."
"Whatever," she said, backing away, then stopping. "Lauren's really dead?"
"As dead as they come, Michelle."
"Shit. Damn." The brown eyes misted. "Hold on."
We waited in the doorway34, and a few moments later a man wearing nothing but red running shorts appeared from the left, rubbing his gums. Thirty-five or so, with unruly dishwater hair, a goatish chin beard, and sleepy, close-set eyes, shoulders brocaded by tattoos35, chest acne, and fibroid scars up and down his arms. He held his hands up, accustomed to surrender, prepared to be rousted. Michelle materialized behind him, saying, "They're cool, Lance — go back to sleep."
Lance looked to Milo for confirmation36.
"Pleasant dreams, Lance."
The man returned to the bedroom, and Milo entered the apartment, maneuvering37 around the dog dirt, taking in everything. I followed his footsteps, struggled to keep my shoes clean.
The hairless dog perched on a folding chair, eyes bugging39. The kitchen was an arbitrary clearing, with a hot plate and a minifridge and a single plywood cabinet hanging crookedly41. Cracked tile counters were piled high with empty soda cans and take-out cartons. An ant stream originated under the plate and continued up the wall. Two small windows were browned by dirty shades, and Latin music — maybe the din10 from the unit downstairs — percussed the floor.
Besides the dog's chair the only furnishings were a frayed42 brown sofa strewn with more empties, crushed cigarette packs, matchbooks, yetmore dog droppings, and a redwood coffee table intended for outdoor use, similarly decorated.
Michelle stood watching us, playing with the sash of her robe. "You can sit."
"Been sitting all day, thanks. Tell me about Lauren."
Michelle sat down and placed the dog in her lap. It stayed in place, silent but edgy43 as she plucked at its ear. Michelle stretched out her index finger, and the dog licked it. "You just made me depressed44 beyond belief."
"Sorry," said Milo.
"Sure you are." She reached around the dog and flicked45 her empty sleeve. "I'm like a pirate, see? Captain Hook. Only I've got no hook."
She stroked the dog for a long time. "Infection—not AIDS. For the record."
"Recently?" I said. Reflexively. For a second I'd felt I was facing a patient. If my breaking in bothered Milo, he didn't show it.
Michelle said, "Couple of years ago. One of those flesh-eating bacteria things. They said I could've died." Tiny smile. "Maybe I should've. The guy I was living with then didn't want to take me to the hospital, kept saying it was just a mosquito bite or something. Even when it started spreading up my arm. Then half my body swelled46 up like a balloon, then everything just started rotting and he split, left me alone. By the time they got to me—man, I felt I was disappearing. And it hurt"
"I'm sorry," said Milo. "Really."
"Yeah, sure—now you telling me this about Lauren. ... I can't believe it."
"When's the last time you saw her, Michelle?"
Her eyes rose to the ceiling. "A year ago—no after that. Later—six months? Could've been five, yeah, I think it was five months. She came by and gave me money."
"Was that a regular thing?"
"Not regular, but she used to do it once in a while. Bring me food, bring me stuff. Especially after I got out of the hospital. When I was in the hospital, she was the only one who visited. And now she's dead— Why the fuck did God bother creating this fucked-up world? What is He, some kind of fucking sadist?"
Her head drooped47, and she ran her hand through her hair, pulling at black strands48, muttering, "Split ends, cheap shitty shampoo."
"Five months ago," said Milo. "How was Lauren doing?"
She looked up. "Her? She was doing great."
"How much money did she give you?"
"Generous."
"Her and me go way back—went way back." Her eyes flashed, and she stroked the dog faster. "In the beginning, I used to help her—taught her how to dance. In the beginning she used to dance like a white girl. I taught her all kinds of stuff."
"Like what?"
"How to deal with reality. Developing your attitude. Technique." Smiling, she ran her finger around the contours of her lips. "She was smart, she learned fast. Smart about money too. Always saved whatever she could. Me, I have money, it just slips away, I'm extremely fucked up—and you won't hear me blaming the bacteria, even though that really did fuck me up, because even before the bacteria I was pretty fucked up. Personally."
She lifted the sleeve, let it fall. "Becoming a freak didn't help my self-image, but I get by. You can always find some guy who digs . . . Like I'm talking to someone who cares."
Reaching into a pocket of the robe, she pulled out a cigarette. No pack, just a loose cigarette; easier access with one arm. Milo was quick to light it for her.
"A gentleman." She sucked smoke. "So who offed Lauren?"
"That's the big question, Michelle."
The brown eyes narrowed. "You really don't know?"
"That's why we're here."
"Aw," she said. "And here I was thinking it was my technique brought you over. Well, I sure can't tell you. Lauren and I—we went different ways. I thought she was getting it together. Back when we were dancing and working together, I always thought she had a better chance of getting it together."
"Why's that?"
"First, like I said, she was smart. Second, she never got into dope in any big way. Had no Jones for men either. She never got attached to anyone, let them get their hooks into her. Tell the truth, she was really kind of a nun—know what I mean?"
"Not a party girl," said Milo."Not a party girl," Michelle repeated. "Even when she was partying, her real head was somewhere else, you know? It's like no matter what we did, and we did some shit, believe me, she was like . . . doing something but really not doing it, you know?"
"Detached," I said.
"Yeah. At first it used to bug38 me. I used to worry some customer would pick up on it and that would screw the whole deal—kill the fantasy, you know? 'Cause all they want—customers—is to be God for five minutes. And I knew Lauren—no matter what she was doing—thought the customers were pieces of shit. At first I thought she was this snotty bitch with a I'm-too-good-for-it vibe, you know? Then I realized it was just her way of getting through the night, and I came to respect her for that. And I tried it myself."
She tossed her hair. "Being detached. I could never pull it off. Not without chemical help. That made me admire Lauren—like she had some special talent. Like she was going places. Now, look."
She studied me. "You're not a cop."
I glanced at Milo. He nodded.
"I'm a psychologist. I knew Lauren years ago."
"Oh," she said. "You're the one—what's your name—Del-something?"
"Delaware."
"Yeah, she talked about you, said you tried to help her when she was a kid, she was too messed up to work with you. Did she come see you again? She said she was thinking of it."
"When was this?" I said.
"Last time I saw her—five months ago."
"No, she didn't. Her mother called me when she went missing."
"Missing?"
"She was gone for a week before we found her," said Milo. "Left her car in the garage, took no luggage, didn't tell anyone. Looks like she had an appointment with someone who got mean. Any idea who?"
"I thought she got out of the job."
"She told you that?"
"Yeah, said she was back in school, wanted to be a shrink. I said, 'Girl, you look like nothing but a yuppie bitch right now, so why bother?' and she laughed. Then I told her to keep studying, and when she figured out why men are so fucked up, let me know."
"You and she must've met some real sweethearts," said Milo. "Back when you were working."
"You forget 'em," said Michelle. "Faces and dicks—one big picture that you rip up and throw out. I saw enough fat asses51 and melon bellies52 to last me halfway53 through hell."
"What was working for Gretchen like?"
"Gretchen." Her face hardened. "Gretchen's got no heart. She fired me—I'm not going to have anything good to say about her."
"What about dangerous types, Michelle? Customers you wouldn't see a second time?"
"Anyone's dangerous, given the right situation."
"Did you and Lauren ever have any close calls?"
"Us? Nah. It was boring: bring your knee pads and fake out that you love to swallow, same old same old. Guys thinking they're in charge— meanwhile we knew they were pathetic."
"Why'd Gretchen fire you?" said Milo.
"She claimed I wasn't reliable. So I was late a few times, so what— we're not talking brain surgery. What does it matter if you show up five minutes late?"
"What about Lauren? How'd she and Gretchen get along?"
She inhaled54 and smiled around a cloud of smoke. "Lauren handled Gretchen—kissed up to her and did her job and was reliable. Then she quit on Gretchen. That was a switch."
"When'd she quit?"
"Must've been . . . three, four years ago."
"How'd Gretchen react to that?"
"I never heard one way or the other."
"That the kind of thing make Gretchen mad?"
"Nah, Gretchen never got mad—never showed any feeling. Like I said, no heart. Cut her up and you'll find one of those computer thingies— slickon chip, whatever."
"Lauren ever have any steady clients? Someone who really liked her and was willing to pay for it? Someone she was seeing recently?"
"Nope. Lauren hated every one of them. Basically, I think she hated men."
"Did she like women?"
Michelle laughed. "As in, Eat-me, girlfriend? Nah. We did doubles, playacted all the time, but basically Lauren wasn't into it. Switched off— what you said: detached."
"Why'd she quit Gretchen?" said Milo.
"She told me she saved up enough money, and I believed her. When she came by to tell me, she looked great, was carrying this little computer—"
"Laptop?"
"Yeah, she said it was for school. And she had real great clothes on— better than usual. I mean, Lauren was always into clothes. Gretchen made us buy our own shit, and Lauren always knew where to get the good stuff cheap—she used to do some modeling down at the Fashion Mart, knew all the bargains. But this time she was wearing the real thing— Thierry Mugler pantsuit, black, like poured over her. And a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps. Back then I was living in a real dump, over in Highland55 Park, told her, Girl, you are taking your life in your hands coming around like that, dressed like that. She said she could handle herself, showed me . . ."
She trailed off, smoked some more.
"Showed you what?" said Milo.
"Protection."
"She was carrying?" said Milo.
"Yeah, this little shooter—silver thing, kind of pretty, that fit in her purse along with the spray. I said, Whoa, what's that—school supplies? She said, A girl can't be too careful."
"Did she seem afraid of anything?"
"Nah, she was real casual about it. Not that that means much. Lauren was never much of a talker—you just didn't push it with her."
"So she came by to tell you she'd quit."
"That and she gave me some money. That was the first time she brought me money—"
"Seven hundred?"
"Something like that—maybe five. It was usually between five and seven."
"How often did she help you out?"
"Every few months. Sometimes she'd just slip it under the door and I'd find it when I woke up. She never made me feel like scum for taking it. She had a way of— She had class, should've been born rich."
"Did Lauren ever say anything else that could help us find her killer56?" said Milo. "Anyone who might've had it in for her?"
"Nah, it was all school with her. School this, school that. She was jazzed because she was meeting a different class of people, professors, whatever." Two eye blinks. "She was real high on that—intellectuals, professors. Really got off on hanging around with smart people."
"She ever mention any names of professors?"
"No."
"She ever talk about doing any work with professors?"
She gazed at the floor. Rolled the dog over and scratched its abdomen57. "I'm thinking— Nah, I don't think so—why?"
"She told people she had a research job."
"Oh." Another eye blink. "Well, she never told me."
"Nothing like that, at all?"
"Uh-uh." Dropping the cigarette on the floor, she ground it out, created a smoldering58 black wound on the linoleum, held out her hand. "I been putting out for you, how about returning the favor, stud?"
Milo pulled out his wallet and gave her two twenties.
She rubbed the bills between her fingers. "I used to do a whole lot less to get a whole lot more, but this doesn't suck—you're a sport."
"Nothing about her job, huh?"
"Nothing . . . I'm getting tired."
Milo handed her another twenty. She brushed the edge of the bill against the dog's groin.
He said, "The money Lauren saved up. Was that all from working with Gretchen?"
"Probably. Like I said, she saved. The rest of us, the minute we had a dollar, it was gone, but Lauren was this little Scroogie thing, counting every buck49."
Milo turned to me.
I said, "Did Lauren talk about her family?"
"She used to in the beginning, but then she stopped. She hated her father, wouldn't say a word about him. Called her mom weak but okay. Said she'd married some old guy, was living in a nice house. Lauren was happy for her, said she'd screwed up plenty but was finally getting it together."
"Screwed up how?" I said.
"Life, I guess. Screwing up. Like everyone does."
"Did she ever talk about her mother trying to control her?"
She produced another cigarette. Waited for Milo to light it.
"Not that I remember—from what she said her mom sounded like a wimp59, not a bitch." She put the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, held her breath. When she opened her mouth again, no smoke emerged.
"So she hated her father," I said.
"He walked out on them, married some stupid cow, had a couple more kids. Little kids. She said they were cute but she didn't know if she'd ever connect with them, because her dad was an asshole and the cow was stupid and she didn't know if she wanted to invest any time in it. She was always talking like that. Everything was an investment—your face, your body, your brain. You had to think of it like money in the bank, not give anything away for free."
Another deep inhalation. She coughed. Smoked rapidly, burning the cigarette nearly down to the filter. "She was smart, Lauren was. She shouldn't be dead. Everyone else should be, but not her."
"Everyone else?" I said.
"The world. Whoever killed her should fry in hell and then get eaten by rats." Crooked40 smile. "Maybe I'll be down there by then and I can train the rats."
"A gun and a computer," I said as we left the building. The angry young men two doors up hadn't gotten any more lighthearted, and this time Milo stared at them until their heads turned. "Like Michelle said, not exactly school supplies."
"Lauren told Michelle she was out of the game, but she'd stayed in it," he said. "No one talks about her being jumpy or afraid. Not Andy or Michelle or her mother. So maybe the gun was to protect what was in the computer."
"Data," I said. "Secrets. And something else: Despite the gun and Lau-ren's street smarts, someone managed to hog-tie her and shoot her in the head. Maybe she got caught off guard because the killer was someone she never imagined would hurt her. Someone she knew and trusted. As in big-bucks steady customer who'd been generous for years. Notblackmail—fee for service. But then the customer decided61 to end the relationship, realized the potential for blackmail60 existed, and took preven-tative measures."
We got in the car. He sat behind the wheel, staring at the dash.
"For all we know," I said, "Lauren was killed with her own gun. Mi-chelle said a little silver shooter. Plenty of small nine-millimeters around. Someone she trusted and allowed to get close to her purse."
Still no answer.
"Maybe I'm making too much out of it," I said, "but you know how we always talk about the eyes giving it away—how people shift their gaze when they're lying or holding back. Michelle started blinking and fidgeting when the subject of professors came up."
"Yeah, I noticed that. When she talked about Lauren enjoying hanging out with 'intellectuals.' So maybe Lauren did tell her about some big-time John with a Ph.D. ... So why wouldn't Michelle say so?"
"Maybe she thinks there's a chance to profit from it."
"Blackmail a killer?" he said. "Not too bright."
"Michelle's no paragon62 of judgment63. And Lauren's death means no more money under the door."
He looked up at the peach building. "Or maybe she's just used to holding back. Whores live by that creed64. . . . I'll try her again in a couple of days, see if I can pry65 out the name of some rich intellectual."
"Ben Bugger's resume—the easy way he slid into owning his own company, offices in Newport Beach and Brentwood—says money. And those lapses66 in his education are interesting."
"Volvo and a frayed shirt says big spender?"
"Maybe he's selective about what he spends on. Lauren did write down his number. And Monique Lindquist's comment about his not talking about sex still has me wondering. During the ride down the elevator in his building, he was in fine spirits. Humming. Literally67. Walking with a bounce and enjoying lunch in the park. So either he doesn't know Lauren's dead, or he does and he doesn't care. Maybe it's not high priority, but somewhere along the line I'd take a closer look at him."
"High priority," he said. "Right now, I've got nothing else going." He tapped the MDT. "Let's see what our computers say about this intellectual.'"
收听单词发音 |
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larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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potholes
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| n.壶穴( pothole的名词复数 ) | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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sagas
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| n.萨迦（尤指古代挪威或冰岛讲述冒险经历和英雄业绩的长篇故事）( saga的名词复数 )；（讲述许多年间发生的事情的）长篇故事；一连串的事件（或经历）；一连串经历的讲述（或记述） | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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pimples
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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pranced
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yelp
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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harassment
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| n.骚扰，扰乱，烦恼，烦乱 | |
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Nazi
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| n.纳粹分子，adj.纳粹党的，纳粹的 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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tattoos
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| n.文身( tattoo的名词复数 )；归营鼓；军队夜间表演操；连续有节奏的敲击声v.刺青，文身( tattoo的第三人称单数 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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bugging
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| [法] 窃听 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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edgy
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| adj.不安的；易怒的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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wimp
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| n.无用的人 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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