by Cleo Coyle
FIFTEEN
“EXCUSE me?” I said. “In a world of rampant corruption, gang violence, terrorism, and drunk drivers, the police are the problem?”
“The NYPD has displayed a bias against cyclists and pedestrians—and a cavalier attitude toward reckless driving. What I do is assess data, Ms. Cosi, and then I circulate it to the rest of my group in the form of a ‘Wheels Down’ alert.”
“And what is a Wheels Down alert?”
“Let me explain in a manner you can fully appreciate: One of the goals of Two Wheels Good is to stop reckless drivers. Our members are my eyes and ears. Just last month an anonymous tip from one of my people helped capture a woman who’d fled the scene after running down a child on Queens Boulevard.”
“But surely justice would be better served if the authorities had your evidence to help them.”
“Certainly, when legally compelled by the NYPD or district attorney’s office, we turn over evidence specifically requested. As far as justice, however…” Fairway’s eyes turned flinty. “Most drivers who kill pedestrians in New York City are permitted to leave the scene of the crime without arrest, sometimes with no more than a ticket. It’s an unspoken truth that no driver gets charged in a fatal accident unless they violate more than two traffic laws. On top of that, ten to fifteen percent of drivers guilty of vehicular homicide never get prosecuted due to the mistakes of a botched police investigation.”
I couldn’t argue with Fairway’s statistics, mainly because I didn’t have any of my own. But I knew studies and statistics could be presented in narrow contexts in order to push agendas. So I never drank the Kool-Aid when an obvious advocate quoted figures. I always assumed there was another side.
On the other hand… given Mike’s sad tale of Max Buckman’s murdered wife, I suspected John Fairway had a pedal to stand on with this one. Even Mike admitted: “When it comes to using vehicles as deadly weapons, there are lots of ways people can get away with murder.”
“I’m still steamed about that Williamsburg incident,” Dante said. “An artist was killed riding his bicycle on a Brooklyn street.”
Fairway quickly nodded. “The police failed to gather enough evidence to prosecute the driver, even though he fled the scene. Then the police tried to cover their own stupidity by blaming the cyclist.”
“The story’s true,” Dante assured me, nodding his shaved head. “And when that failed, the NYPD tried giving the victim’s family the bureaucratic runaround.”
“A good example, Dante,” Fairway continued. “Yet for every vehicular homicide that wins the publicity of the Williamsburg incident, ten more are ignored. Two weeks ago, a prominent Manhattan plastic surgeon was run down during an early morning bicycle ride. There were no witnesses and the police have yet to make an arrest.”
Fairway leaned across the table. “Even more tragic, this senseless murder was considered so routine it rated very little media coverage on a busy news day. With such public apathy, you can see why the police are seldom interested in the evidence my organization gathers. And in most cases our evidence is inadmissible in criminal court.”
“Why is that?”
“Primarily because it’s gathered anonymously. My people don’t trust the police and they won’t cooperate with the authorities.”
“Okay then, if you don’t pass evidence on to the cops, who do you give it to?”
“When enforcement fails, lawsuits are the next best option. We pass our data on to the families of the victim and their lawyers, who pursue justice in civil court.”
Fairway slid an unmarked manila folder across the slick marble. “In this case, I’m passing the evidence on to you, Ms. Cosi. I shall be watching you to see how it’s used.”
I ignored the odd Big Brother–esque threat, and opened the folder. Inside I found two blurry photos. The first showed the rear end of a white van. The second image was an enlargement of the first.
“Oh, my god. Esther, look at this!”
The first two numbers on the New York State license plate were clearly legible in the enlargement, though the rest were blocked by evening shadows.
“You claim these photos were taken last night?” I asked excitedly.
“Yes,” Fairway said. “Calvin was on scene, taping this lady’s performance poetry. He had his smart phone handy when the attempted murder took place—”
“Excuse me?” I interrupted. “You just said ‘attempted murder,’ which implies you’re aware that the driver had a motive. How could you be aware of that? Do you know something about this incident the police don’t?”
Fairway shifted uneasily. “You’re reading too much into my words, Ms. Cosi. I simply meant that there is no such thing as an ‘accident’ when a pedestrian or cyclist is run down by an internal combustion engine. In New York City, cars kill more people than guns. Did you know that?”
“I’ve never thought much about it.”
“That’s the problem. There are too many uninformed, unmotivated members of the public out there. This town had the good sense to ban guns. Why not the automobile?”
I was about to reply when Esther beat me to it—
“That sounds very noble,” she said, adjusting her black-framed glasses. “But what do you get out of all of this advocacy?”
He smiled. “Two Wheels Good dreams of a day when no personal cars or trucks are permitted in Manhattan—and deliveries are made only with special permits. Innocent lives are claimed every day. The authorities are indifferent, so we at Two Wheels Good are sometimes forced to resort to… other means.”
His words hung in the air for a moment. “Other means?” I echoed. “You’re not actually going to argue that your cause puts you above the law?”
“The statistics speak for themselves. We do what we must. What we deem necessary for the greater good.”
Esther and I exchanged uneasy glances.
“Hey, listen,” she said. “I don’t like cars, either. And I hate traffic. I even admire some of your goals. But guess what? I don’t like opaque innuendo about ‘other means’ and ‘doing what’s necessary’ coupled with vague threats like ‘we’re watching you,’ because, frankly, as we know from history, ‘above the law’ rhetoric can end up with the ‘wrong’ sort of people being herded into showers that have Zyklon B on tap instead of hot water.”
“You have a right to your opinion, Ms. Best.”
Fairway’s voice had gone cold though his smile never wavered. Rising, he slipped the banana helmet over his bristly blond scalp. Calvin Hermes stood, too, and checked his smart phone for messages.
“You must excuse us. Calvin has work, and I’m expected at a rally in front of the Brooklyn borough president’s office. If you need to reach me for any reason, here’s my contact information.”
Fairway’s business card was as odd as he was. No phone number. No office address. Fairway’s name didn’t even appear. Just an orange plastic rectangle with an e-mail address under a Two Wheels Good logo—a Victorian-era bicycle with a huge front wheel.
Calvin Hermes took off after that, but Fairway lingered for a moment, surprising Esther by offering his hand.
“I would be remiss, Ms. Best, if I did not add that you are a very talented performance artist. I have been following you with pleasure on the Internet.” His gaze slipped for a moment to admire her ample bustier cleavage. Then it moved back up to meet her shocked brown eyes. “It was my personal honor to meet you. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
When lawyer and client were gone, Esther let out a freaked-out scream.
Dante smirked. “I can see he won your heart and mind.”
She put her hands to her full cheeks and shook her head. “That guy was too weird.”
“Well, he certainly had the hots for you,” Dante noted. “And I thought you liked weird.”
“Artistically weird, yes. Socially weird, check. Not Mr. Smile While I Throw the Constitution Under the Volkswagen Bus weird.”
“Esther, focus!” I opened the folder and sp
read the photos out on the table. “Look closely. Is this the cargo van you saw last night?”
She stared at the pictures for a silent minute. “I’m sorry, Boss,” she finally admitted. “I can’t be sure. I saw the side of the thing, and I remember the graffiti. That’s it. Unlike men’s tushes, the rear end of one van looks pretty much like another.”
“I think I recognize it,” Dante said, leaning across the table.
“You told the police you didn’t see anything,” I shot back.
“Not last night. But I may have seen this white van before. It looks like Kaylie’s service van to me. When she’s non-mobile for long periods—like festivals and events—she uses it to replenish her stock.”
I knew about the practice of using vans to service food trucks. Bigger vehicles burned a lot of fuel. A service van could keep a large truck replenished for far less money. What I didn’t know was that Kaylie had one—a white one.
“I’ve seen her van come and go a few times while working the Muffin Muse,” Dante said. “I don’t remember the license number, but the police can find out…”
Misreading my troubled expression as one of doubt, he got testy.
“Look, Boss, I know it sounds crazy. I mean, who’d kill over coffee and cupcakes, right? But I really think—”
“Easy, Baldini,” Esther interrupted before I could. “We agree with you about Kaylie, but it’s not about buttercream turf anymore.”
Esther showed Dante the Times. After skimming the piece with Lilly’s quotes about plans to regulate vendors, he pounded the table and jumped up.
“That’s it. I’m going to Kaylie’s bakery to find that van—”
I grabbed Dante’s tattooed arm. “You know where she bakes her cupcakes?”
“Sure! She rents a kitchen just down the road in Chinatown.”
I stood up, too. “Let’s all go.”
SIXTEEN
WE fast-walked the mile from Hudson to Canal Street in Lower Manhattan. The thoroughfares were crammed, of course, as they were every Saturday when hordes of shoppers from all five boroughs, Long Island, New Jersey, and even parts of New England descended on Chinatown.
They came to patronize the Asian food markets, seafood kiosks, vegetable stands, and specialty stores. They stopped by acupuncture clinics, fortune tellers, noodle shops, tea parlors, and the many bakeries that lined the cramped, crowded, serpentine streets between Canal and the Bowery.
In the heart of the action, we were stalled by a rowdy crowd in front of a popular seafood vendor, where the morning sun glinted off the silver scales of smelts and sardines, and lobsters and crabs waved their slate green feelers from ice-packed wooden barrels. On a leaky table, catfish lay exposed, kept fresh and (disturbingly) alive on beds of crushed ice.
Intricately formed hanzi characters were everywhere, on banners, awnings, and street signs, the bold calligraphy set off by scarlet or gold backgrounds. Nothing escaped the Chinese influence, not even the local McDonald’s with its façade of ornate columns and a pagoda-like overhang.
Enough English was on display to help tourists, and our resident lady of letters remarked on the amusing collision of Chinese and English that formed the most whimsical “Chinglish” signs: Happy Panda Trading Company, Very Good Fortune Peking Duck, and The Princely Splendor Furniture and Lighting Company, to name a few.
“But this one has got to be my personal favorite,” Esther said, pointing. “I mean, who wouldn’t want to get their eyewear from Golden Mandarin Very Finest Optometrist?”
Our progress picked up when we turned down Mott Street, a cramped, crowded, curved boulevard flanked by century-old four-, five-, and six-story buildings. It was so narrow there was not much room for parked cars, and we kept close watch on passing traffic in hopes of spotting Kaylie’s service van.
Finally Dante stopped us beyond the bend of Mott Street’s gentle curve, in front of the doors to the Church of the Transfiguration. The two-hundred-year-old granite edifice housed a Roman Catholic church; its mass schedule was posted in English and Chinese—three services a day, two in Cantonese.
“The bakery Kaylie rents is on Mosco Street,” Dante informed us, “just around the corner.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
We marched down Mosco—more of an alley than a street, descending at a steep angle. Faux-Victorian lamps dotted the tiny wedge of sidewalk, a futile attempt to make this grim urban stretch seem amicable.
The only signage (other than a “no parking” warning) belonged to a little hole-in-the-wall dumpling shop operating behind a curtain of greasy plastic weather strips.
Seeing no white van, we looped the block three times (stopping once to nosh on an order of fried dumplings and a fresh, hot carton of chicken lo mein, and twice to gander at knockoff designer purses) before ending up where we started.
I checked my phone messages, but Detective Buckman had yet to contact me. What now?
Esther frowned. “Dante, are you sure this is the right street?”
“I’m certain. I came here to work every day for a solid month last year. Look up…”
Dante directed our attention to a building rising above Mott. The wall facing us was adorned with a three-story depiction of a beautifully detailed Chinese pagoda sailing across a sea of white clouds. In the distance, above the billowing mist, the torch of the Statue of Liberty, our Beacon of Freedom, gleamed with golden light.
Esther blinked. “Wow,” she said with no trace of her typical sarcasm. But the mural was, in my opinion, a true wow of a piece.
“You did that all alone?” I asked, giving Dante my proud mama smile.
“It’s my design,” Dante said. “But I brought in two other guys from the Five Points Arts Collective to help me paint—and share the commission.”
“Five Points has an art collective?” Esther said. “Now that’s downright scary.”
Dante titled his shaved head. “Excuse me?”
“Not much for history, are you, Baldini? A hundred and fifty years ago, Five Points—which is just down the block, by the way—was the most violent community in America. There’s a whole book written about it. Ever hear of The Gangs of New York?”
“I saw the movie,” Dante said flatly. “But there’s nothing ‘violent’ about the collective. The only guns we use have paint in them. And as for our work down here, when me and the guys weren’t hanging off a scaffold, we were chowing down on pork buns at that little dumpling shop. That’s how I know Kaylie rents ovens on Mosco. The dumpling shop sits right across from the entrance to her kitchen. I saw her coming and going.”
“Show me where, exactly,” I said.
Dante pointed to a green archway beside a steel door painted black. Neither the archway nor the door displayed any kind of sign or business name.
“Through that unmarked archway is a steep flight of stairs. The bakery is on the second floor. Dominic Chin told me the family who owns that kitchen makes the very best egg custard tarts in the city.”
“You know Councilman Chin?” I asked, surprised.
“Sure. He’s one of the sponsors for Five Points. He and his fiancée. I hear she’s a doctor on staff at Columbia University Medical Center, some kind of plastic surgeon. They’re a real power couple, those two.”
“Ugh,” said Esther.
“Yeah, I know,” Dante replied. “Despite the obviously shallow aspects of swanning around the bon ton—and the fact that he’s a politician—Dom’s a pretty cool guy.”
“Dom?” Esther pushed up her black glasses. “My, aren’t we making first-name friends in very high places. Especially if that dude becomes mayor like everyone says he will. A girl’s gonna go far if she marries you.”
Her tone was dripping with irony, but Dante answered straight. “I’m a working artist. Any girl who marries me better be ready to eat a lot of hole-in-the-wall pork buns.”
Marries, I thought, egg tarts…
“That’s it!” I cried.
Esther blinked. “What’s it?”<
br />
“Huddle up,” I told them. “I have an idea that will get us into that kitchen—a plan that will let us ask as many questions as we want about Kaylie, her van, and the people who drive it.”
“Sweet! Spill it!”
“Yeah!”
I quickly laid out my scheme.
“Fine,” Esther said after I finished. “I’ll pretend to be Dante’s fiancée. But I’m going to be one disappointed bride. I expected to marry up.”
“Wow,” Dante replied. “I can already feel Esther’s unconditional love wafting over me.”
“Come on,” I wheedled. “It’s a solid cover story. You two are the happy couple who want to serve Chinese pastries at your wedding. I’m the proud mother of the bride, ready to write a big fat check. Of course they’ll talk to us!”