“No chance in hell, Raffi,” said the blond-haired woman behind the desk Raphael tried to negotiate with. She sounded like a Brooklyn transplant, in her thirties. She reminded me of Brittany Summers but without the implants. “I don’t know this guy. It would be my ass if J.D. even knew I was in here talking to you, much less this guy.”
“You said you have an hour,” Raphael said.
“Maybe, I said. Maybe an hour. I’m gonna risk my job for a maybe?”
Raphael gave me a well I tried shrug, but my stare told him to try again.
“I double my offer,” Raphael said to the woman. “Give us one hour. My friend is looking for his stepdaughter. He came a long way. One of my girls thought he saw her here.”
The security woman, whose shiny name tag identified her as Joan, cast me a sidelong glance. She didn’t believe the story. Most likely, she thought I was a cop.
“Joan,” I said, “if she’s not taking her medication, she might hurt herself or someone else. I just want to be able to call my wife and tell her I saw her, and she’s okay.”
The Liar’s First Law: the more specific the details, the more convincing the story. We would never get access if she knew we were trying to view the tape as part of a murder investigation that might be linked to her club.
“We don’t let in anyone underage,” Joan said, a disclaimer.
“She’s twenty-one,” I said. “She just needs her meds.”
“Yeah, well, you should be careful with the company she keeps,” Joan said, glancing toward Raphael.
“No shit.”
Joan studied Raphael and seemed to grasp the significance of his bruises. She gave me a small, approving smile.
“Enough talking,” Raphael said, impatient. “Will you help us or not?”
“Fifteen hundred,” Joan said. It was twice his last offer.
“Yes, yes, it’s done. Hurry.” As Raphael fumbled out his wallet and managed to extract neatly folded bills, an unwelcome thought came to mind: Did Chela get paid? If she had, she wouldn’t have told me. My stomach filled with rocks. I would be as glad to be rid of Raphael as he would be to get away from me.
Joan popped her gum. “It’s a lot easier to ignore people than it is to find them. I gotta get somebody to do the desk for me. Then we’ll search on the laptop.”
Joan asked us to wait in the hall while she called for a replacement. She didn’t want her boss to find us loitering in his command center. I leaned against the corridor’s exposed concrete wall, close enough to Raphael that he wouldn’t try to take off.
“After this,” Raphael said, “you walk away?”
“And leave your fingers in peace.”
Raphael glared. “And give me my phone.”
“Make me,” I said.
We stopped talking.
In five minutes, a broad-shouldered, crew-cut man named Hector came in to relieve Joan, sipping a fountain drink from Pollo Tropical. He nodded a “whassup” at Raphael as he walked by. I wondered how much Raphael spent greasing Club Phoenixx and how many other clubs he had in his palm. Chela had told me that Hector was friendly with Maria, and probably the other girls, but I made a mental note to interview him later.
“Gimme fifteen,” Joan told Hector, and we followed her down the hall with a laptop under her arm. She led us to a semi-furnished break room with a vending machine and microwave. She set up her laptop on the table, avoiding the food stains. Phoenixx’s glamorous exterior hadn’t penetrated the bouncers’ break room.
“When am I looking for?” Joan said.
“Friday. Eleven o’clock,” Raphael said efficiently. He remembered the exact time he’d last seen Maria. A businessman’s mind at work, or maybe he had reason to remember.
“Our video’s digitized,” she said. “Where am I looking?”
“The VIP room?” I said.
“Rear bar,” Raphael corrected. He knew better than I did. “North end. Near Xavier.”
“Ho Central,” Joan said. In other words, the usual spot.
Four screens emerged on Joan’s laptop screen, and she focused on one, racing through time stamps. Raphael saw the women before I did, pointing his left index finger. “There,” he said.
Joan enlarged the image to full screen. I followed Raphael’s finger to the right side, where two or three women were gathered in a corner well lighted from the bar. Two more arrived—Maria and Chela. The images were slightly grainy in infrared black and white, but I knew Chela’s hair. Her arrival in the circle looked like a homecoming.
My little girl was stunning. No wonder Raphael remembered exactly when he’d seen her.
But I pointed out Maria. “The one in the sparkles,” I said. “That’s her. I want to see everything she did.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Joan said.
On the video monitor, Raphael approached Chela and Maria.
“Stop it there,” I said. “Go slow.”
I forced myself to let my emotions go dead as I watched Raphael propositioning Chela. I looked for signs that he was using intimidation on the girls, noting how they behaved in his presence. As soon as he’d shown up, all of the girls started smiling and posing, hoping to be noticed. But he had eyes only for Chela.
On the screen, Raphael pointed Chela’s attention down the bar.
“Show me where he’s looking,” I said, hoping to find Mr. Big Nose. From Chela’s description, he’d been sitting at the same bar but farther down.
“Thought you wanted to watch Maria,” Joan said. I was surprised she knew Maria by name, but I tried not to show it.
“I do. But there’s a guy she might have gone off with.”
“Try the second register,” Raphael said.
“There’s some obstruction in that angle, but we’ll try,” Joan said.
I leaned in closer to the image Joan produced. Club Phoenixx was packed, and so was the bar. I’d hoped his face would stick out, but so far . . . nothing.
“Where was he?” I asked Raphael.
With a sigh, Raphael leaned closer to the screen. “There, I think. At the bar.”
As soon as Raphael pointed him out, the man was obvious: wide build, wild hair, sunglasses. I couldn’t see the monstrous nose Chela had talked about, but close enough. His back and profile faced the camera. While everyone around him was in motion, he stood stock still, staring toward the women. Staring toward Chela. He barely seemed to breathe.
“Closer on him,” I said, pointing. “And slow.”
Joan froze the footage and zoomed closer to the man, trying to bring his face into focus. The image blurred and sharpened as she worked the controller. “You’re not paying me enough for this, Raffi,” Joan murmured.
Frozen on his profile, I could see that his nose was bulbous, perhaps misshapen. Mr. Big Nose, indeed. Something about his profile jumped out at me.
“I want a copy of that image,” I said. “That guy.”
“Thought you were looking for your stepdaughter,” Joan said, trusting me less and less.
“I am. Let’s go back to the bar.”
Chela chatted with the women for a while, but soon after her contact with Raphael, she looked nervous and eager to leave. What had he said to her? Chela and Maria seemed to argue, and Chela abruptly walked away. Maria followed.
“Can we keep them in view?” I said. “Maria and her friend?”
“Not the whole time, but if I know where they’re going, I can try to follow them.”
“The nearest exit,” I said, guessing. “Her friend wanted to go.”
Joan worked the footage like an air traffic controller. A camera caught Maria and Chela hugging right before Chela exited. Had Chela wiped away tears? Rage tightened in my chest; I wanted to knee Raphael in the groin again. I was glad when Chela vanished, safe at home.
For the next hour, Joan searched footage to track Maria’s movements. Raphael helped her pinpoint the instant when Maria had come to him to ask for a meeting with Mr. Big Nose, and her disappointment in his answer w
as obvious despite her frozen smile.
Maria spent a bit more time with the women in the corner, but they dispersed when Raphael left. They had hoped to impress him, and their show was over when he was gone. He didn’t seem like a strong-arm pimp, but it could be hard to tell.
Mr. Big Nose sat like a statue at the bar. He listened without moving when Raphael came and whispered to him and sat frozen for two long minutes after that until he stood up to walk away.
“Where’s he headed?” I said.
“The VIP room,” Joan said. “Same place I bet Maria’s going.”
The camera angles were much tighter in the VIP room, since there were fewer people to track. Mr. Big Nose’s face was clear, and something about him was suddenly familiar. Had I seen him before?
“I want that image, too,” I said.
The encounter came within twenty minutes of Chela’s departure. Maria approached Mr. Big Nose in the VIP room at 11:33, girly and flirtatious, her shiny purse clutched under her arm. I glanced at Raphael: Did you see this? He only shrugged and shook his head.
This encounter might have gotten Maria killed, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. Mr. Big Nose’s familiarity gnawed at me. I might know him, but he felt all wrong.
A disguise, I realized.
On the video, Maria’s smile lit up the room. Most of the men were staring at the way her dress clung to her ass, but her smile was her most memorable feature.
“Your daughter’s pretty,” Joan said. “Your stepdaughter, I mean.”
At first, Mr. Big Nose seemed to dodge her, retreating to a plush chair with his drink. But Maria came at him again, and this time she ended up sitting on his armrest, crossing her legs at indelicate angles.
They exchanged a few words, and Mr. Big Nose’s hand landed on Maria’s thigh.
I couldn’t see everything that happened between them because of obstructions when people entered or left the room, but at some point, Mr. Big Nose gave Maria a drink.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Raphael said. “He likes her.”
But in some ways, that didn’t seem true. Big Nose’s expression was sour, never cracking a smile. He seemed only to tolerate her, but he kept her close. Sometimes his lips curled when he looked at her. She sickens him, I thought. But why buy her a drink?
Maria and Big Nose were in the VIP room together for thirty-eight minutes. I only saw Maria take one drink, but she giggled over her wobbly legs when she tried to stand. Offering her an arm to lean on, Big Nose smiled for the first time.
“Does Maria get drunk?” I asked Raphael.
“This is an act. She likes champagne, but I have never seen her drunk.”
If it was an act, it was a good one. Maria looked sluggish and confused as Mr. Big Nose led her toward the exit. But no one nearby noticed her face, only her dress.
He drugged her, I thought. I hadn’t seen him touch her drink, but I felt certain. The confident Maria who had entered the room was nothing like the Maria who was leaving. She wasn’t carrying her purse. She had left it behind.
“That one,” I told Joan. “The two of them. Print me that one, too. With the time stamp.”
“Hope that helps, cuz I’m done,” Joan said.
I couldn’t persuade Joan to try to find the footage of Maria leaving the club, but I thought I might have enough to go on. The only men I’d seen Maria talk to at Club Phoenixx were Raphael and Mr. Big Nose. I might be heading somewhere.
“We are finished,” Raphael told me.
It was time to let him go. I was sick of the sight of him.
“For now,” I said.
He held out his palm. “My phone.”
I only stared at him.
“Hope you find out what happened to your daughter,” Joan said.
“Me, too,” Raphael said, returning my pointed stare. “Your daughter is one of the most promising call girls I have ever known. So seasoned and so young. I could make her rich.”
Joan looked up suddenly, wondering what was about to play out between us, but Raphael had chosen that moment because we weren’t alone. He didn’t think I would hurt him in front of Joan, and he was right.
“Easy, boys,” Joan said.
“I’ll see you later, Raffi,” I said. “Bet on it.”
Raffi’s lower jaw trembled as he brought his bandaged hand to his bruised face. “You are her father? Shame on you. I did not create her.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Raffi,” I said. “Perhaps neither of us should be too quick to point fingers.”
A swift flash of fear and pain and masked rage. Raphael opened the door and walked away. I was glad he was limping.
“He’s not so bad, as asswads go,” Joan said in his defense.
“Whatever you say.”
“I hope you’re not a problem for me,” Joan said.
“I’m not a problem. I’m looking for my kid. I think she might be dead.”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .” She’d heard the rumor about Maria.
Without condolences, Joan handed me the photocopies from Maria’s last night alive.
Just another lost girl.
APRIL, NOT CHELA, sent me a late-night text from L.A. to let me know the package had arrived safely. I held off on calling as soon as I woke up because of the three-hour time lag, but it was good to begin the day with a celebration.
Before I left for work, I laid out my case for Dad. With thirty years of LAPD experience, he would call me on my bullshit, and he always had good ideas. I wanted to make sure he thought I was following the right angles. Dad was grumpy because he was in his wheelchair, but he’d conceded that the chair was the easiest way for him to get around. I didn’t like anything about pushing Dad in a wheelchair, but we put up with it.
Marcela dragged us to a popular South Beach breakfast restaurant, Lil Pink’s, so Dad and I could barely hear each other over the noise. Lil Pink’s was a huge diner-style restaurant, packed with families, tourists, and half the city’s police force. I was paranoid we might be overheard, but the cops were there to eat.
“Going after the pimp?” Dad said. “That wasn’t smart. Taking that gun, neither.”
“Yessir,” I said. “I won’t be so reckless from now on.”
“Forget him now. He’ll be ready next time. Don’t know what you were thinking. “
I wasn’t thinking—I wanted to kick his ass. I hadn’t hinted that Chela might have slept with Raphael, but I’d told Dad that Chela had learned about him through her investigation at the club. He was still annoyed that I’d rushed Chela to the airport without a proper goodbye.
“Why won’t you talk to us about Chela?” Marcela said. She was my stepmother now, and sounded like it. “Everything’s a secret. Maybe we can help.”
I shook my head. “I gave her my word.”
“But whatever happened was so bad that you sent her home in the middle of the night?” Marcela prodded.
Dad only sighed. As a police captain who had worked in Hollywood Division, he understood what Chela’s life on the streets had been without me saying a word. “Leave it, Marcy,” he said. “I’ll talk to Chela when we go home.”
Marcela clicked her teeth and signaled for a waiter. The waiters dressed like auto repairmen, part of the restaurant’s shtick. “I’d like to know what’s going on for a change.”
Family politics were slowing us down, but I tried to be patient. Finally, Dad turned his attention back to the photocopied pictures I had from Club Phoenixx. He spent a long time staring at the photo of Maria and Mr. Big Nose.
“That’s a disguise,” Dad said. “Not his real hair. Sunglasses. He’s hiding.”
“I thought so, too.”
While Marcela told the waitress our order, Dad and I slipped into a bubble where his wheelchair disappeared. Even after a stroke, there was nothing wrong with Dad’s mind. He had forgetful moments, but I did, too. He was a smart cop.
“Got enough for South Beach Homicide now,” Dad said.
Dad knew
I had made a mistake by not going to the FBI in my previous case. Chela had wanted to bring in the police all along; instead, I’d made her feel obligated to go to Raphael. Even if Maria’s killer confessed to me personally, the ending wasn’t happy already.
“I hate calling cold,” I said. “And I left handprints on that pimp.”
“Think he’s gonna press charges?” Dad said. “Just say what you know. In and out. I’ll try to dig up somebody.”
“I don’t want Chela dragged into this,” I said. “It might become public.”
“Might not,” Dad said. “Worth the chance, with what you have.”
While the waitress set down our huge round waffles, I studied the picture of Mr. Big Nose sitting by himself in the VIP room, his clearest image. My eye went to his ear lobe, and my heart jogged. Mr. Big Nose had a prominently attached lobe.
Just like Gustavo Escobar.
I stared at the face again. Same complexion, potentially, but his nose was nothing like Escobar’s. “Unless it’s fake, too,” I said, thinking aloud.
“What?” Dad said.
“Does that nose look fake to you? Another part of the disguise?”
Dad studied it and nodded. “Could be. Professional job, though.”
I itched to call Chela to ask what she thought. She’d said that Raphael worked with cast and crew from Freaknik. But most of the crew members couldn’t afford Raphael’s prices, and the man’s build didn’t match any of the actors. I glanced from the attached lobe to the man’s arms to his slight midsection paunch.
If I ignored the face, it could be Gustavo Escobar sitting at that bar stool. Was he really a suspect, or did I want him to be a suspect?
“Whatchu thinking?” Dad said.
“This guy could be the director of my film,” I said. “If I take away the disguise.”
“You think he was with Maria?” Dad said, to clarify. “Can you prove it?”
Even if the police watched the video footage, we both knew they weren’t likely to question Escobar over such a flimsy resemblance, and Raphael might not tell the police about Mr. Big Nose at all. After last night, Raphael might have taken the first flight back to Italy.
“All I can do is try,” I said.
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