The body was not discovered until it was dumped out at the Staten Island Kills, a dump that could be spotted from miles away by the clouds overhead, clouds made up of thousands of scavenger seagulls that continually circled over the area.
The numbered dumpster had been traced back to a restaurant named the Red Bird Grill. The bartender and waiter remembered seeing Helen a few nights back. The bartender had described her as bubbly.
The waiter also remembered her very well. He recalled that she and her friend had both eaten steak and that Helen had turned red when she saw the bill for dinner. The woman with her was a flirt. He recognized her from the sketch he was shown. The same woman that had abducted Manny had murdered Helen Gillette. As I said, this woman was cocky. She was not afraid to show her face. She was a redhead for the abduction, and a blonde for Helen Gillette's murder. I was guessing she was a brunette by now. Hair color is hair color and facial anatomy is quite another. I knew what she looked like and sooner or later I'd take her down. She was just too damn brazen to know it.
Twenty-one—GOTCHA
It was past 6:30 PM. As is true of winter, night had long ago fallen. The character of the neighborhood had changed substantially, taking on a troublesome guise. Driving down the streets of Washington Heights, I sensed that many a misdeed was being planned. All smalltime stuff. It was in the air. It was in the eyes of the street urchins, their surreptitious glances at my unmarked as I drove by—was I a threat to them or not? I studied them quickly and then glanced away. Local law enforcement had a far better handle on it than I did. My purpose was clear; I was looking for the woman that had murdered Helen Gillette and abducted Manny Nazzare. A smalltime collar was hardly going to ring my bell.
Ernie, I would learn, was the name of the kid I had seen on the street outside Rousseau Brothers Garage. He should have been home doing his homework, eating dinner, or helping with the dishes. He wasn't. I decided it was time for the two of us to get acquainted.
His bright blue do-rag glowed like a polar icecap beneath the light of a street lamp. He was attempting to clip the chain of an unattended bicycle. I'd parked slightly up the block and approached on foot. "Hey there," I said, preempting Ernie's attempt at petty larceny.
I truly expected him to be flustered, to register fear, grin sheepishly at the very least. Man, was I mistaken.
He peeked at me quickly and then his eyes were back on the bolt cutter. "There something I can do for you?" he said, his tone clearly establishing that I had no place in his business.
I made a quick adjustment. I mean the kid had barely scratched puberty and he was all attitude. Ballsy, don't you think? "NYPD," I said. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
Ernie looked up reluctantly. "You think it's a good idea for you to be out here by yourself? I mean you being a woman and all."
I mean who does this kid think he is—Tony Soprano? "That's it!" My cuffs were out in an instant. "Turn around, hands out. You got a tude problem, young man. You think a little menace like you is going to be safe in juvie?"
"Aw, stop it, lady, you ain't gonna lock me up."
Ernie had yet to comply with my instructions. I spun him around and ratcheted the cuffs down on his bony little wrists just tight enough so that he'd know I meant business. "Wrong!" I shoved him up the block toward the car. He made a puss and dragged his feet. Nonetheless, he was sitting in the back of the unmarked faster than you could say gansta.
"You got a name?" I asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
He stared unhappily out the window. It took a moment before he realized that I was in no rush to set him on his merry way. "Ernie," he said—nothing more.
"Ernie what?"
He scrunched his lips. "Velez."
"Where do you live, Ernie Velez?"
He glanced toward the third floor window, just above us. "3D. Look, lady, what I done wrong?"
Ernie was a little bit of a thing with cornrows cropping out beneath the edge of his do-rag. He had tough guy down to a tee. "Don't try to play me, kid, I caught you red handed."
"What crime? That's my bike."
"Good one, Ernie. Try shitting me again, I'll stop talking and start driving. I'll have you in lockup so fast it'll make your head spin." I hated bullying a kid, but really, it was for his own good. "You got that?"
"Uh huh."
"Why were you stealing the bike, Ernie?"
He gave me one of those expressions—the one young teens do so well. They make you feel like a moron. It read, you for real? "Ain't got one. It's simple economics, man. You need something, you take it."
Who's your economics professor, Snoop Dogg? "Not exactly, young man. You need something? You get a job. You earn money. You buy what you need. It goes more like that. Now your butt's in a sling—what's your street economics going to do for you now?"
"I wanna cop a plea."
"You wanna cop a what?” Now I was flustered—Ernie was the most impressive aspiring criminal I'd ever met. He'd be on the cover of Felon magazine in no time. "You've been watching too much television, my friend. What do you have to bargain with? Where's your leverage?"
"I seen the truck."
Bingo! Thank God I was still facing forward so that he didn't see the excitement in my eyes.
"That's worth something, ain't it?"
"What truck?"
"Ah come on, lady, I know you're here about the truck. I seen the police tow it away."
"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not—what have you got for me?"
"I seen the truck going into the garage."
"When was that?"
"Couple nights ago."
"You see who was driving the truck?"
"A guy."
"A guy—not a girl?"
"There was a girl there too, in another car. She opened the garage and let the truck in."
I took out the lady killer sketch and held it over the top of the seat so that Ernie could see it. "This her?"
Ernie glanced at the sketch. "What if it is? I got leverage yet?"
"Just answer the question, Ernie. I'll let you know when you've racked up enough points."
"Yeah, that's her."
"What color was her hair? What was she wearing?"
"Black hair, nose ring, she looked like one of those vampire girls."
"Goth?"
"Uh huh." Ernie wrinkled his nose. I take it he didn't go for the black makeup thing.
"What about the guy?"
"Never seen him. He never got out of the truck."
"The girl knew the combination to the key pad?"
"Nah, she swiped it."
"I see." I had only looked at the keypad quickly. It obviously had a swipe mechanism beneath it. The question was where had she gotten a coded card from? "Any idea where someone could get one of those swipe cards from, Ernie?"
Ernie didn't respond. I was still monitoring him in the rearview mirror. His attempt at deadpan was good but not great. I gave him a moment to cook his own goose. "Hear that, Ernie?"
"Hear what? I don't hear nothing."
"That's the sound of your leverage getting flushed down the toilet. Weigh your options, young man, information or incarceration, your choice. I'm going to count to ten. One, two, three, four, five—"
"Awright. Here, man, in my pocket."
I swiveled in my seat. Following his gaze, I reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a coded swipe card with my fingernails. I dropped it into an evidence bag before looking it over. "Where'd you get this?"
"She left it on top of the key pad."
"She see you?" I was asking for his protection. I didn't want her coming back to take care of loose ends.
"No way. I waited until they were long gone."
"Your leverage is growing, kid. I'm going to reduce your charges."
"Reduce 'em? Man, I just solved your whole damn case." Ernie was quite dramatic, but we were going to pay a visit to his mother no matter which way you sliced it.
"You're getting off easy, kid. Let
's go."
I brought him upstairs to let his mother mete out the justice. I hoped I'd opened his eyes a little—put a scare into him, but really, I wasn't quite sure. We all know that kids are resilient—sometimes that cuts both ways. My guess was he'd be back on the street as soon as things cooled off. Ernie didn't strike me as the kind of kid that would give up easily. He'd boost that bike yet.
I had gained something in the bargain—the plastic swipe card used to obtain access to the garage. With any luck, we'd find a worthwhile print on it.
The pieces were falling into place. I truly hoped my villainess was too smug to see it coming. I ached to see the look on her face when I tapped her on the shoulder and placed her under arrest.
Twenty-two—A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR
I dropped the swipe card off at the crime lab and headed off for home. It was late and I was tired and hungry. I thought about pizza and a mellow cabernet. I could almost taste it when it dawned on me I'd be dining alone. I changed directions and headed for Ma's. I was in no mood to be alone.
It was almost midnight by the time I arrived. I rapped lightly on the door with my college ring. Ma usually goes to bed about 1:00 AM. I knew she'd be up watching the tube.
"Stephanie, is that you?" Ma's voice was a whisper passing through the door.
"Yeah, Ma, did I wake you?"
"You know you didn't." She opened the door. "Ricky's asleep. Be quiet."
We tiptoed into the kitchen.
Ma was in her jammies and a housecoat. A quartered apple lay on the kitchen table alongside a jar of carb control peanut butter.
I kissed her on the forehead. Ma was a diabetic with a powerful chocolate jones. She had an episode last spring that landed her in the hospital. I almost lost her. She's been a good girl since then.
"What's that for?" she asked.
There were no words. I shrugged.
"Oh boy, what's wrong? Where's Gus? You haven't eaten, have you?"
And that's why they're mothers—they can see through you in an instant. It was that uncanny sixth sense, that ability to reconnect with you as if the umbilical cord was still attached—light years more advanced than the Vulcan mind meld.
As expected, the small TV was on. She was watching Howard Stern. The shock-jock-turned-media-impresario was at the height of his powers, attempting to negotiate a pretty blonde out of her clothes, offering implants as bait. "Ma, you watch this?"
She reached over and switched off the TV. "It's this or Letterman."
I understood her position immediately.
She pushed one of the sections of peanut butter smeared apple toward me. "I've got leftover lasagna in the fridge. I'll heat some."
I wasn't going to say no. I was starving physically, emotionally, and on several other levels. Ma was one of the great holdouts—she didn't own a microwave. Instead, she heated the lasagna in a frying pan until the edges of the macaroni were crisp. It no longer looked like lasagna as it came out of the frying pan and tumbled onto the dish, but the aroma was amazing and the first taste soothed my last raw nerve. She had a three-liter bottle of Cribari under the table. She poured the jug wine into a juice glass. It was also wonderful. "Eat," she said. "We'll talk when you're ready."
I was ready. "I had a fight with Gus." The words came out in between bites.
"Madonna—I knew it. What did you do?"
Now, I have to believe any other mother would have taken her daughter's side. Did you see him with somebody? Did he cheat? What did the louse do? But not Ma, she knew Gus and she knew her daughter. Ma was as direct as a bee sting. She was in my mind, connected to every nerve ending and synapse.
"I had a dream."
"You had a what?"
"I had a dream."
"And this upset him?"
"Very badly."
"Who were you screwing in your dream, Stephanie? Were you talking in your sleep? You did that in your sleep when you were younger."
"I did?"
Ma nodded. "You remember Michael Christopher?"
It took a moment, but it was there. Michael Christopher was a boy I had a crush on in high school. He had dark wavy hair and a cleft in his chin. He lettered in all the major sports: baseball, basketball, and skirt chasing. I was young and unwise then. I didn't give him the time of day, but secretly I thought he was hot. "What of it?"
"I almost poured water on you. You were moaning like it was some kind of voodoo mating ritual. Your father, God rest his soul, I thought he was going to put a gun to his head." Ma crunched down on her apple. "If Gus sat through that...well, what can you expect?"
I was so embarrassed—I began to laugh. I just couldn't help myself.
"Shush, keep it down." Ma was grinning. "I nailed it didn't I?"
I shrugged again. There was no point denying it. I understood why Gus was so upset, but really, think about it, it was just a dream.
"Who was it this time? Stephanie," she said playfully, "you're such a slut."
I wolfed down another bite of lasagna and looked down at the dish as I spoke—didn't have it in me to make eye contact. "Nigel Twain."
Ma covered her mouth in shock. "Dr. Twain, Madonna, you too?" It was her turn to be embarrassed. She'd already confided to me Nigel Twain had as much influence on her hormones as the moon had on the tides. "What can I say, Stephanie, you've got me dead to rights. I mean that man—dear God." Ma stood up and filled a glass with water. She was looking flush.
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"Stephanie, you've got to stop what you're doing. Don't screw up a good thing. Gus is a great guy and oh, just to remind you, he could pass for a young George Clooney. I'm kind of hoping he turns out to be it." Ma knew the term too, it, universally understood as the end of the journey, the man you've been waiting for. My STD carrying friend, Candace was not alone, far from it.
"How do I stop it, Ma? How do I stop myself from dreaming? We all have fantasies. I do. You do. I'm sure Gus dreams about other women—show me a man that doesn't."
"Of course he dreams about other women. He's a man, isn't he? But he keeps his dreams private, whereas you, my darling daughter, do not. Discipline, you've got to discipline yourself. You can't stop yourself from dreaming, nobody can, but the moaning and the groaning...honey, you're throwing it in his face. He's a wonderful guy, but he's got his pride. How would you feel?"
Like shit. Shrug number three. "This is a tough one."
Ma leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. "You'll find a way. You're a smart girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out." She walked to the refrigerator and fished out a plate. Something was wrapped in aluminum foil. She set it down in front of me and pulled off the foil. "When all else fails, there's cannoli. If you can't satisfy one craving, satisfy another."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, that's the way it works. Don't ask me why, but it does. Mangia. "
I ate every last crumb.
Ma made up the bed in the spare room so I could stay the night. In the morning, she told me that I had slept peacefully. In her words, "There were no voodoo ceremonies last night."
I went home in the morning for a shower and change of clothes. The Italian bakery on the corner was already open for business, so I stopped in for pastry. I didn't believe that the dessert had helped me through the night, but I figured what the hell, I could always burn off a few extra calories and Lido, as you know, was well worth it.
Twenty-three—GOOD TIMES, BAD TIMES
Moira was playing the ingénue. She had the look down to a tee: the printed silk dress that played about the knee, not tight but clingy where it needed to be, shoulder-length brown hair, white linen gloves, and heels, not quite spikes, but high enough to make her sway when she walked—signals meant to confuse. An ingénue, perhaps one with a twist?
Today was a play day. An onslaught of hard work would begin tomorrow. The plan had been worked and reworked until she was pleased with it and now she was confident that she could pull it off. She found the prospect of
a large payday overwhelming. She was giddy with the anticipation of wealth. It had been a very long time coming.
She arrived at the post office and pulled the padded mailer from her Prada shoulder bag, the counterfeit she had purchased for twenty bucks in Chinatown. She slipped on her dark sunglasses before entering, paid in cash for overnight delivery and left immediately afterwards.
A man slowed to observe her as she stepped into the sunlight. He was young with the look of success about him—media or brokerage, Moira decided. She lowered her sunglasses and smiled in a way that suggested that she approved, not quite, but almost flirting. She couldn't risk encouraging him too much, there was too much at stake. She took the ego boost and turned before he had the time to marshal an advance.
The weather had taken a turn for the better, bright sun and windless. She cinched the belt on her coat and started off toward Fifth Avenue to stroll past the designer shops and jewelry stores. Life had finally become well worth living—it hadn't always been that way. She had grown up in a dirt poor home on the outskirts of Dublin. Her father was a lazy drunk. He'd spent most of his days in front of the TV, watching soccer and dozing. Her return from school was always met with silence and a gesture, his eyes opening just enough to acknowledge her return. He'd pat the side of his recliner, gesturing for her to come and sit alongside him. He'd stroke her head as if she were a puppy. When he stopped, she'd look up at her father and find him asleep.
Moira would do her homework sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, glancing up occasionally to see if he were asleep, trying not to think about how hungry she was. There was no food, not until her mother returned late in the evening with a bag of groceries and a sore back. Lots of potatoes swimming in leafy, heavily salted vegetables served with a scrap of cheap, chewy meat.
Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Page 11