Little Girl Lost jb-1

by Richard Aleas

  “Mom, you remember Miranda Sugarman?” Her face lit up. She’d always liked Miranda, had made no secret of her hope that we’d eventually get married. I put my hand on her arm and stroked it gently. “Miranda was shot a few days ago. She’s dead.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Rachel worked with Miranda at the place where it happened, and she’s not safe there. I’m trying to help her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” It was as if a curtain had dropped, and my mother suddenly looked her age. She’d turn sixty-one in a few weeks, and though I didn’t like to think of her that way, she was starting to look more like an old woman each time I saw her. Her hair had gone grey when I was a kid, but while I was living there she’d had it dyed every other week. No more. Her face was narrower than it had been, her nose sharper. And though she stood as straight as ever, the top of her head only came up to my shoulder now.

  “I should call Barbara,” she said, and stood up to head to the phone.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I went there, and Barbara’s-” Was there a good way to say it? They hadn’t been close, but they’d talked from time to time, no doubt conspired about the grandchildren we’d give them. “They told me she had a heart attack seven years ago.”

  My mother sat down again. “Everyone’s going,” she said quietly. “Every day, you turn on the news and it’s someone else. Last week it was that actor, the one from all the westerns.”

  “Michael Tynant,” I said. “I saw that.”

  “You know who else died? Elyse Knechtel. Right here, 14-D, you remember. Just the other day, they found her in her bed, like she was asleep.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “And you know who else? Maria, who used to run the bakery on Seventh Street? Her daughter. She was only twenty-nine. Your age. Some sort of disease, muscular something. Everybody’s dying.” She looked at Susan, who’d been standing silently by the door, watching us. Susan’s eyes were red and her hands were shaking. “Listen to me, talking about things like this. Of course you can stay here, sweetheart. Let me get you some sheets and a towel.”

  We sat in my old room, I on the room’s one chair, Susan on the twin bed with its fresh sheets. My Reservoir Dogs poster was still on the wall and I was sure none of the old clothing I’d left in the closet when I’d moved out had been touched.

  “So, what happens now?” Susan asked. She sounded numb, dazed. I couldn’t blame her.

  “You stay here for a few days while we sort everything out,” I said. “First thing is you give me your hotel key and we get your things out of your room and bring them back here.”

  “You can’t go there.”

  “No, but my boss can. They’ve never seen him, and even if they’re watching the hotel, they wouldn’t know what room you’re in.”

  “Unless someone at the front desk told them.”

  “If there’s anyone watching the room, Leo won’t go in. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “What if they’re waiting inside the room?”

  “He’s an ex-cop, Susan. He can take care of himself better than either of us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next, I’m going to need your help. I need to know how Miranda ended up at the Sin Factory. You know people in this business. I want you to make some calls for me.” I explained my theory about how Miranda and Jocelyn had gotten started, gave her the timeframe and the geography, and asked her to find out anything she could. “Where did they work, what did they do, when were they there – anything.”

  “I’ll help if I can,” she said, “but I’m not sure I’ll be able to find anything.”

  “I think you will.”

  “I’ve worked in a lot of clubs,” she said, “but there have got to be ten times as many that I’ve never heard of.”

  “You probably know people who know them.” She looked uncertain. “You know more than I do, anyway. Please. Just do the best you can. It’s important.”

  “All right,” she said. “And what will you be doing while I’m calling all the strip clubs in America and your partner is breaking into my hotel room?”

  “I’ll be talking to Murco Khachadurian,” I said.

  Chapter 13

  I called Leo from the hallway outside my mother’s apartment. It was after seven and normally he’d be heading to Port Authority soon to catch the 7:47 bus back home, but there was another bus at 9:40, and if he missed that there was a train. I explained what I needed him to do and told him I’d be at the office in twenty minutes to give him the key.

  “Every day I seem to be getting more involved in this project of yours,” he said. “Don’t I remember you telling me when all this started that you didn’t need my help?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t need it. I said I wasn’t asking for it.”

  “And now you’re asking?”

  “It’ll take you twenty minutes. Not even. Fifteen.” He didn’t say anything. “Yes, I’m asking.”

  “Should I take a gun?” he said.

  “It’s just picking up a couple of bags from a hotel room.”

  He thought about it. “I’ll take a gun,” he said. “You probably should, too.”

  I didn’t much like carrying a gun, but there were times when it was called for. “Yes. I probably should.”

  I pushed the button for the elevator, and while I was waiting, a woman came out of 14-D carrying an armload of cardboard hatboxes. She looked a little like Mrs. Knechtel, thin brown hair framing an oval face seamed with tiny wrinkles. A sister, I guessed, or maybe a close cousin. She tried to push the door to the garbage room open with her hip. I opened it for her and held it while she lowered the boxes to the floor. Two framed posters were already there, leaning against the wall.

  “I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just so sudden,” she said. “And there are so many things to go through. I don’t know where to start.”

  I knew how she felt.

  We traded, the key for the gun, and then each headed off in our own direction: Leo to the Martinique on Broadway and Thirty-second, I to my apartment. I watched him through the back window of my cab, saw him with his arm raised to hail one of his own. In the midwinter darkness, in his heavy overcoat and wool cap, Leo suddenly looked old to me, too.

  There was no one walking in the street as we pulled up to my building, and just a few cars were parked at the curb. The front door was glass and the hallway beyond was well lit. I could see all the way in to the stairs, and there was no one there. But there were plenty of places someone could stand and not be visible. Behind the door leading down to the basement was one choice; the second, third, or fourth floor landings were others. And there was always inside my apartment itself. I’d installed a Medeco lock and a police bar, but neither was a guarantee against intruders, especially when the building’s windows were so insecure.

  I thought about going around to the back, up the fire escape, and in through the window myself, but apart from the noise it would have made and the fact that anyone in my apartment would have a clear shot at me long before I’d have one at him, I just didn’t have it in me tonight.

  I gripped the gun in my right hand inside my jacket pocket and readied the front door key in my left. No one came while I was opening the door or, once I was in the vestibule next to the mailboxes, while I waited for it to swing closed. No one stopped me on the stairs. No one fired down on me from above or came up behind me from below. I took each flight slowly, pausing at each landing to release my grip on the gun, wipe my palm, and re-grip. The stairwell was silent, aside from the muffled sounds of television coming from behind some apartment doors.

  When I got to the fourth floor, I listened at my door for a full minute before unlocking it and cautiously pushing it open with my foot. I had the gun out, held before me in both hands to steady my aim if I needed it. I let the door slam shut behind me and quickly turned left and right to look into the kitchen and the bathroom. No one was standing beh
ind the shower curtain or behind the kitchen door. There wasn’t room for anyone in the apartment’s one closet, but I checked anyway. I turned in a circle, trying to spot anything that looked like it had been disturbed. Nothing did. I lowered the gun, went back to the front door and locked it.

  Murco Khachadurian’s number was where I’d left it, next to the piece of paper with Kirsch’s and Mastaduno’s. I slipped both pieces of paper into my pocket along with whatever cash I had in my desk drawer. I unplugged the cell phone charger from the wall, coiled up the cord and put the whole thing in my jacket pocket. No way of knowing when I’d be back here next. What else might I need? I looked around. The Serner files were still lying on the bed. I slipped the rubber band back over them and put them under the bed. Not much of a hiding place, but it also wasn’t the end of the world if they got stolen.

  What else? I could change my clothes. I could take another hot shower. I could try to get some sleep, start with a fresh head tomorrow. These were all reasonable things to do, and they were all just excuses to put off what I had to do.

  I dug out the cell phone number and dialed it.

  His voice, when it finally came, sounded hoarse, like he’d spent the night talking in a crowded bar or the past twenty years smoking two packs a day.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “Mr. Khachadurian?”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “My name is John Blake,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “ Blake? You’re calling me? How did you get this number?”

  “It sounds like you know who I am,” I said. “That means you probably know I’m looking into the death of Miranda Sugarman.”

  Silence. Then: “I can’t talk to you now. I’m with company. I’ll call you back.”

  “Why don’t you tell them it’s a personal call and you have to take it,” I said.

  “Don’t push me,” he said. “We’ll talk when I’m ready to talk.” The line was disconnected.

  I put the cell phone down on my desk and watched it. Like the proverbial pot, it didn’t boil. But that was the number Khachadurian would be calling on if he did call back, since that was the number that would have shown up on his phone’s display.

  I wondered what he was doing. Company, he’d said, and in the background there’d been the noise of conversations, the sound of cutlery and dishes. It could have been a dinner party in Scarsdale or a restaurant just down the block. No way to tell.

  He’d known my name. Of course, all that meant is that Lenz had told him about the incident at the club, or maybe that one of the cards I’d handed out to the girls had made it back to him – but all the same it made me anxious. I had the feeling that Murco Khachadurian had been paying closer attention to me than I had realized.

  The more time passed without his calling back, the more nervous I got. What if he did know where I lived? It was certainly possible. That risk was why I hadn’t brought Susan here, and it was a good reason for me not to stick around either. Maybe there hadn’t been someone waiting for me in my apartment, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone watching the building from the street, or that there wouldn’t be momentarily.

  I grabbed the cell phone and the gun, took one last look around for anything I might be forgetting. I was locking the door behind me when the cell phone started buzzing. I pocketed my keys and flipped the phone open left-handed, holding tight to the gun in my other hand.

  “I ended my dinner early for you, Mr. Blake,” he said. “Now I’m ready to talk.”

  “Good.” I started down the stairs.

  “I want to know everything you know about Miranda Sugarman,” he said.

  “That’s funny,” I said, “I was about to say exactly the same thing.”

  “Well, then, maybe we can sit down together, share some information.”

  “I appreciate the invitation, but I prefer the phone. Scarsdale is a little out of my way.”

  “Who said anything about Scarsdale? We’re right here, Mr. Blake.”

  I rounded the corner to the last half-flight of stairs. An enormous man was standing with one foot on the lowest step and a gun held casually in his fist. Behind him, a thin man with a grey crew cut was talking into a cell phone. He saw me and flipped it closed, raised the gun in his other hand. “Put your gun down, Mr. Blake. And the phone. You won’t need them.”

  Chapter 14

  Maybe in his prime Leo would have gone for the double play. Or maybe he would have turned around and run for it, back up the four floors and into the apartment, or maybe up five and out onto the roof. And maybe he’d have pulled it off. I didn’t have a chance.

  I lowered the gun, put it down on the stairs, snapped my cell phone back into its holster.

  The younger man came up to meet me, leaned over to snatch up my gun, and gestured me down to the foot of the stairs. He stood well over six feet and had a neck like a linebacker’s packed into a collarless shirt. It looked like he used the same grease in his hair that Lenz used. This must be Little Murco, though it had clearly been years since the nickname had fit.

  Big Murco was a head shorter than his son but had the same olive coloring and a skinnier version of the same features. He looked a little like Jack Kevorkian, I thought. He held the front door open and his son prodded me in the back with his pistol. I stepped outside.

  Across the street, a black four-door sedan sat with its engine running and its lights on. Had it been there before, waiting for me when I’d gotten home? I couldn’t remember. Most likely Little Murco – Catch – had been watching the building, maybe with instructions to call his dad when I showed up. Then I’d thrown a monkey wrench into things by calling him myself. If I hadn’t, would they have just kept watching, hoping I’d lead them to something – maybe to Susan – or would they eventually have come calling on me? I’d never know now.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as the father followed me into the car’s back seat. Catch squeezed in behind the steering wheel.

  “Nowhere. We’re just going to sit and talk. And you’re going to tell me what you’ve found out about that bitch who set me up.”

  I thought back to the conversation I’d had at Zen’s. “You don’t mean the burglary, do you? I thought you got the guys who did that.”

  “You see? This is a man who knows how to do his job.” He said this to his son, who was turned sideways in his seat and watching over the headrest, gun at the ready. “Yes, I mean the burglary.” He pointed to a scar running from above his right eye to his hairline. It looked recent and was about the right size to have been made with the butt of a pistol. “It’s true that I got the men who did this to me. I could show you more of what they did, but I won’t. Let’s just say those two men won’t be doing it to anyone else ever again.”

  “So?”

  “Those two men – they were nothing. Amateurs. They didn’t plan the job themselves. Someone else told them where to go and what to do and when to do it. It was no accident that they broke in when they did. Someone knew I’d have a lot of cash at home that night. Someone who got half the take for putting the finger on me. Someone who walked away with five hundred thousand dollars of my money.”

  “You think it was Miranda?”

  “I know it was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he rasped, “they told me it was. While they could still talk.”

  I thought about Catch and the cup full of teeth. I pictured the two burglars tied to chairs, the father and son working them over till they spilled everything they knew. I looked from one to the other. Would the old man have held their heads, or would he have been the one working the pliers?

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “How could Miranda have known about the money?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Blake. But I can tell when a man’s lying and when he’s telling the truth, and those two, at the end… they weren’t lying.”

  No, they probably wouldn’t have been – and it didn’t sound as though Murco wa
s, either. He believed what they’d told him, and he believed what he was telling me. But what did that mean? If it was true, it meant Miranda hadn’t just turned into a stripper – she’d turned into a thief as well. It also meant he’d had one hell of a reason to kill her. It certainly explained why Miranda had been so frightened of him.

  But if he had killed her, why was he talking to me now? “You killed Miranda,” I said, “and now you can’t find the money she took from you.”

  “If I’d killed her, Mr. Blake, you’d better believe I’d have gotten her to tell me where the money was first.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t kill her?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You realize everyone thinks you did it.”

  “Everyone’s an idiot. You think I would have done it in my own club? You think I would have left the body there for Lenz to find? You think I’m stupid?”

  It didn’t seem to call for an answer.

  For the first time, Catch spoke. His voice was a husky baritone. “If we’d killed her,” he said, “it wouldn’t have been with two bullets to the back of the head either.” His eyes were completely dead. This was the man who’d held the pliers, I decided.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” the father said, “I would have killed her, if I’d known she was the one who set me up. But I didn’t know it was Sugarman until after she was dead.”

  “You said the two men you caught told you-”

  “They told us the person who’d set them up for the job was a woman, a stripper named Jessie they’d met at a club in the Bronx called the Wildman. They didn’t know Jessie’s real name, just that she had blonde hair and fake tits and that she gave them my address and took her cut of the money when they returned after the job. That’s all they knew. We talked to the owner of the Wildman, but by that time Sugarman hadn’t shown up for work in weeks, and all the information they had on her in their files was wrong. You understand? She made it up. Fake name, fake address. That left me nowhere. You know how many blondes with fake tits there are in this city?