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The rain streaked down the window of my office like tears from a dame who’d seen too much. I lit a cigarette, the ember glowing like a lone star in the black Arizona night. The name’s Rex—private eye, six-foot-five, built like a brick wall with a jawline that could cut glass. I don’t scare easy, but the file on my desk had me reaching for the bourbon. Gary. The freakshow from ASU. A transvestite with a twisted mind, a pedo rap sheet longer than a desert highway, and a delusion that he was some kinda anime loli straight outta a Jap cartoon. Yeah, this case was gonna be a doozy.
Gary wasn’t your average creep. Word on the street was he’d slunk through the halls of Arizona State, draped in frilly skirts and thigh-highs, thinking he was some pint-sized princess with pigtails. A loli, he called it—those big-eyed, squeaky-voiced dolls from the dark corners of the internet. He’d bat his lashes at the coeds, but his eyes weren’t on the legal dames. No, Gary had a sickness, a hunger for the young ones, and he didn’t care who knew it. Cops had nabbed him more times than I could count, but he kept slipping through the cracks like sand through a sieve. Now he was back, and he’d brought a shadow with him—his “lil bestie.”
I’d heard whispers about her. Some kid he’d latched onto, a sidekick in his warped little fantasy. “Lil Bestie,” he’d croon, like she was his doll to dress up and parade around. Nobody knew her real name—just a ghost in Gary’s sick playhouse. Was she a victim? A willing accomplice? Or just another lost soul caught in his web? That’s what I was here to find out. I crushed the cigarette under my heel and grabbed my trench coat. The streets of Tempe were calling, and they weren’t gonna be pretty.
First stop: the dive bars near campus. The kind of joints where the lights flicker and the clientele don’t ask questions. I leaned on the bar, flashing a wad of bills and a glare that could melt steel. “Gary,” I growled. “The cross-dressing creep with the loli fetish. Where’s he holed up?” The barkeep, a wiry guy with a face like a prune, didn’t flinch. “Ain’t seen him,” he muttered, but his eyes darted to the back room. Bingo. I pushed through the haze of smoke and cheap perfume, and there he was—Gary, in all his grotesque glory.
He was perched on a stool, skirt hiked up, giggling like a schoolgirl while twirling a strand of dollar-store wig hair. Next to him, a kid—couldn’t have been more than fifteen—sat quiet, eyes hollow, clutching a soda like it was her lifeline. Lil Bestie. My gut twisted. Gary spotted me, and his painted lips curled into a smirk. “Well, well, if it ain’t the big bad detective,” he chirped, voice high and grating. “Come to join the tea party, handsome?”
I didn’t bite. “You’re done, Gary,” I said, voice low and steady. “The game’s up. Step away from the kid, or I’ll drag you out myself.” He laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that made my fists itch. “She’s my lil bestie,” he purred, reaching for her. That’s when I snapped. One step, one swing, and Gary hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, lipstick smearing across his face. The kid flinched but didn’t run. I knelt down, keeping my voice soft. “You’re safe now, kid. Let’s get you outta here.”
She nodded, slow, like she wasn’t sure freedom was real. I hauled Gary up by his collar, his wig askew, and marched him out into the rain. The cuffs clicked, and I felt the weight of the night lift just a fraction. Another scumbag off the streets, another soul saved—maybe. That’s the gig, though. You wade through the filth so the world stays a little cleaner. I tipped my hat to the kid as the squad car rolled up. “Stay tough, Lil Bestie,” I muttered. Then I turned into the dark, the rain washing away the stench of Gary’s twisted little world. Case closed—for now.
