by Roberts, Ann
The bartender lay a napkin down in front of her and smiled. Ari noticed her nameplate—Elsa.
“What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a glass of your house Pinot Grigio and a bowl of minestrone.”
Elsa nodded and went to place the order.
When she returned with the wine, Ari plopped down a twenty, hoping it would buy her some conversation. “So how long has this place been open?”
Elsa thought and busied her hands by wiping the bar around her. “I’d guess about three years, but I’m not really sure. I’ve only worked here for eight months.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s a job. The tips are fantastic on the dinner shift. Lots of rich folks going out.”
“But you’re not on the dinner shift.”
Elsa nodded and frowned. “Not often. That’s a seniority thing, and I haven’t done my time in the trenches. The owners are really big on rewarding loyalty.”
“Well, I’ve always heard great things about this place. People are always raving about the food.”
“And it’s gotten even better since Aspen Harper took over the kitchen,” Elsa said. “She’s an amazing chef. She changed a lot of the recipes that were only so-so, and now there’s not a bad thing on the menu.”
A waiter came by and set Ari’s soup on the bar. One spoonful of the minestrone confirmed Elsa’s opinion. “This is wonderful,” Ari said. “So I’ve read that Aspen can be a little difficult to work with. Is that true? Is she one of those temperamental chefs with an ego?”
Elsa wiped down the counter and repositioned the condiments. “I wouldn’t necessarily agree. I think the people saying that stuff are the jealous guys who are afraid of a powerful woman. Not that she doesn’t have a mean streak,” she added. “She’s not someone I’d ever want to cross.”
“What do you mean?”
Elsa nodded at the two other bar patrons as they got up and left. She looked around before she spoke. “I’m just saying that if things aren’t done right, she’ll throw a fit. She does have a temper. One time the owner suggested she change some of the ingredients to a sauce, and she came unglued. She yelled at him in front of the entire kitchen staff.”
“What did the owner do?”
“Nothing. She’s the chef, and he really didn’t have any right to question her.”
“But it’s his restaurant. Doesn’t she work for him?”
Elsa raised her index finger, as if to give Ari a lesson. “Yes. However a restaurant is only as good as your chef. If you don’t have a great chef, you might as well close your doors. Aspen knows she’s a commodity. She could leave anytime and have another job in a second. So Romero, that’s the owner, knows to keep her happy.”
“And how does he do that?”
“Lately it’s been with time off. She’s asked for a few nights and afternoons. Romero didn’t want to give it to her, but he knows better than to say no.”
A red flag went up in her mind. “Why does she want to take time off?”
“I don’t know. I think it has something to do with a woman.” Elsa leaned close to her and whispered, “Aspen’s a lesbian, and I think she’s involved with someone. The wine steward overheard her on the phone, and she was saying she was really angry because this woman isn’t noticing her. Ever since then she’s been acting kinda weird, and the whole staff suspects it’s because this woman is on her mind.”
“So the other woman doesn’t want her. Is that the problem?”
“That’s what we think. She’s been in a foul mood for the past two weeks, and I’m rather sure it’s because this lady friend isn’t working out.”
“So I take it she doesn’t deal well with rejection.”
Elsa grinned. “You’re right.”
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday, October 17th
3:30 PM
Molly rubbed her temples and glanced at the crumpled sheet of paper. She crossed off another name, another dead end that didn’t remember Itchy or couldn’t coherently articulate any information. Such is the life of street people, she thought. The hangover headache was a steamroller pressing against her skull. She hadn’t felt this bad in months—since before Ari, when she spent all of her evenings hunkered over the bar, a glass of Scotch beside her and the bottle just a few feet away. Her life was much better now. Everything was better with Ari.
She would need to think of a way to apologize tonight, but for now she and Andre needed to locate the last name on her list. Only two of the twelve contacts had provided any help at all. Penny, a young prostitute, had seen Itchy talking to some men in suits the week before. When she asked Itchy who they were, he called them his meal ticket. Another street person, Walter, recalled that Itchy had flashed a wad of cash at the St. Vincent de Paul dining hall last Saturday.
Andre leaned against their car and gazed down the street. Molly saw no one, including Rusty, the final contact. “Are you sure he lives here?”
Andre craned his neck toward the building in front of them, a six-story hotel that reminded her of Itchy’s place.
“Last known address,” she said, checking her notes. “Let’s go.” She opened the creaky door and wandered into a lobby that reeked of burning incense. She noticed the desk clerk and suspected he was the culprit. She could only imagine what smell he was trying to conceal. They approached him, and he quickly reached for a can of air freshener. Forest pine mixed with incense nearly made her gag. Still in the air was the faint trace of marijuana, which she ignored. She stared at the thin figure, whose long beard compensated for his bald head. He nervously tapped the countertop and forced his lips into a tight smile.
“We’re looking for Rusty,” Andre said.
The clerk pointed to a figure lounging in an overstuffed chair, his fedora tipped over his forehead. Molly imagined the old man was sleeping, but he’d need to continue his nap later. He was dressed in a trench coat and jeans, a bright orange Phoenix Suns jersey with Steve Nash’s number thirteen clearly visible. Several chains protruded from his shirt collar, and she imagined he kept his valuables around his neck.
“Hey, Rusty,” Andre said. He tapped the man’s foot with his notebook, but Rusty didn’t move.
“What?” he asked from under the fedora.
Molly still couldn’t see a face, but the voice didn’t match what she expected. “Sit your ass up,” she said, knocking the hat into his lap and revealing a tuft of blond hair. Her jaw dropped at the sight of a boy. He was young, his face dimpled and white. He was about five-six and of average weight. She pictured him in a baseball cap, not an old man’s hat. “How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen,” he said. He pulled a wallet from an inside pocket of the coat. “Want to see my ID?”
“Yes,” she said, snatching the worn leather billfold from his hand. She carefully studied the picture and the quality of the ID.
“That’s real. It’s not a fake,” he said.
“So why aren’t you in school?” Andre asked.
He kept his head down and wouldn’t look up. “I dropped out. I hated it.”
“Which high school?” Molly whipped the question at him, watching his eyes. He was searching for an answer, and she knew he was a liar. “Don’t bother making something up, because I would have asked you to recite your last address, and when the address didn’t match with the local high school, I’d know you were lying. Stand up.”
Rusty did as he was told, and Molly patted him down before pushing him back on the sofa.
She leaned over him and narrowed her eyes. “Now, tell me again. How old are you?”
His head fell back against the cushion and he closed his eyes. “Fourteen.”
She sighed deeply. Many runaway teens settled on the Phoenix streets during winter, but each time she interviewed one or found a child dead in an alley, she couldn’t help but think of her niece and nephew—their eyes bright with hope, their futures tucked beside them each night in their comfortable suburban beds. Rusty twirled his hat un
til she grabbed it from him. He looked up at her with vacant eyes, as if to say, so what?
Andre stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to go. “You hungry?”
Rusty flashed a crooked smile. “Always.” He leapt out of the chair and was at Andre’s side in a second.
She fell in step with them and headed across the street to an Italian deli. She pulled Rusty into a booth while Andre went to retrieve some sandwiches.
“How long have you been on the streets?”
“About a year.”
“Where are you from?”
“Different places. I tend to keep moving.”
She noticed a paperback tucked into one of the coat pockets. “What are you reading?”
He withdrew a tattered copy of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden and held it up for her inspection. She’d read it years ago during high school. The guy had stayed in a cabin, sacrificing most of his possessions to live simply. At the time she couldn’t understand the message.
“Have you read it?” he asked.
“Years ago. I don’t remember much.”
He opened the book to a page he’d obviously studied thoroughly. It was a passage about simplicity and the frugal life. Two things were evident to her—he was a good reader and he understood the book. He definitely had one up on her. When he finished reading, he put it back in his pocket. “This is great stuff. It’s what it’s all about.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have too many things in our life, too many responsibilities. We need to cut it down and focus only on the things that are important.”
“You mean like family and education and friends?”
He seemed to bristle at her examples and turned to the window. He blinked quickly, and she thought she saw tears welling in his eyes. When he regained control, he faced her. “Education is the most important.”
“Then why aren’t you in school?”
“I am. This is my school.” He gestured around the restaurant. “I’ve learned more in one year on the streets than I ever did in a classroom. I don’t need to be there.”
“But if you don’t go to school, you’ll never get off the streets. This way of learning will only get you so far.”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She could tell he was smarter than most of the street kids she’d met. He didn’t automatically disagree with the truth. He saw it—he just wasn’t ready to accept it yet, or he knew he needed school and didn’t know how to go back. She dropped the conversation, recognizing there was nothing else to discuss. She’d learned from experience that questioning runaways meant leaving their pasts alone and avoiding lectures. She couldn’t change the world, and they refused to answer questions about their families or backgrounds, which were usually shocking and horrific. She debated whether to haul him in, but she thought it would be pointless. He’d just run the first chance he had. She made a mental note to run a missing juvenile report to see if anyone was looking for him.
Andre arrived at the table and presented Rusty with two twelve-inch hoagies and a super-size drink. “Thanks, man,” he offered. They watched Rusty slip one of the sandwiches into his pocket for later, and he wasted no time unrolling the paper and taking a huge bite. “Great.”
“Rusty, we need to ask you about Itchy,” Andre said.
He exhaled and shook his head. “So sad. That dude was okay. He really helped me a lot when I got to Phoenix. I think he felt sorry for me. Is it true that he’s dead?” Rusty looked up at Andre, hoping the older man would tell him some good news. Molly saw the remnants of a regular kid in Rusty’s eyes.
“Yeah, he’s dead,” Andre said. “And it wasn’t pretty. Whoever did this to Itchy was trying to make a point.”
Rusty continued to work his way through the sandwich, trying to be polite and not speak with his mouth full. “I heard he got stabbed and they left a note.”
“Stabbed, shot and beheaded,” Molly added. “This was a real hit, and Itchy paid a price for what he knew.” She gently touched his arm. “And we’re worried that Itchy might have told someone else.”
Rusty shrugged. “I don’t know anything. Itchy never talked about people being after him.”
“We don’t think he knew,” Andre said. “He had some information, and either someone found out, or he tried to blackmail them and paid the price. If he told anybody, then that person could be in serious danger.”
Rusty sipped his drink and seemed to contemplate Andre’s words. Molly wasn’t sure if he was deciding what to share with them or if he really didn’t know Itchy’s secrets. Maybe, Molly thought, Rusty does know but he doesn’t realize the importance of the information. His gaze darted from Andre to Molly before returning to his lunch. “I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t,” Molly said.
He swallowed the last bite and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Same difference. I’m just a kid.”
Molly stared at him. He did know something, but he wasn’t sure he should tell. “That’s right, Rusty, you are a kid, and as smart as you are, how long do you think you’ll last on the streets without Itchy? You said he taught you a lot, and look what happened to him.” Rusty’s expression softened, and she was sure she’d struck a nerve. “You just need to tell us about your last conversation with Itchy. Let us decide what’s important, and let us help you.”
“We can make sure you get in a shelter or get some assistance,” Andre added.
Rusty glared at him. “I don’t need or want any help.”
Andre held up a hand and nodded. “That’s cool. It’s just an offer. So when was the last time you saw Itchy?”
Rusty leaned against the cushion, as if he was settling in to tell a story. “I saw him about two weeks ago, on Monday and then Tuesday.”
“Are you sure?” Molly asked.
“Yeah. Mondays are the day that this group serves snacks to the homeless in Patriot’s Park, so we always used to see each other there. And Tuesday he came by the hotel while I was watching CSI on cable.”
“What did he talk about that might be important to us? Did he show you any money or did he talk about meeting anyone?”
Rusty cocked his head. “Geez, were you there? He brought me this huge takeout dinner, and when I asked him how he got it, he looked around to see if we were alone, and then he pulled this huge wad of cash from his pocket. It looked like a roll of twenties and fifties. I asked who died and he laughed. He said he was involved in a little business venture and this was his payoff. He said there was gonna be more soon and then he promised me that if he got enough money, he was gonna get off the streets, and he said I could come too. We’d get an apartment and be roommates.” Rusty’s head dropped to his chest. He took a deep breath before he looked up again. “He said I could go back to school. We ate and he left. Said he’d be in touch. That was the last time I saw him.”
Molly let a few moments pass in silence. “What did he say about the business venture?”
“He said there was big money to be made. I asked him if I could get in on it, and he said no way. He wouldn’t let me. He was kinda like that. Always looking out for me. He said he’d take care of me.” Rusty paused and let the emotions wash over him. “He said he was going out on his own. He had a plan.”
“To run drugs?” she asked skeptically.
“No, Itchy wouldn’t get in that deep. He had a plan to strike it rich. I don’t know what he was going to do, but he said it was a sure thing.”
Andre pulled out a picture of the numbers written on the memo pad. “Have you ever seen this?”
Rusty peered at the photo and shook his head. “No.”
“Did you ever see Itchy with any guys in suits? You know, guys who look like professionals?”
“No, but Itchy mentioned somebody named Ron or something—”
“Rondo?” Molly asked.
“Yeah, Rondo. Said he knew him. That’s really all I know.”
They talked with Rusty for another half hour, Andre guiding much of
the conversation about the Phoenix Suns, Rusty’s favorite team. He saw the games regularly, depending on a friendly security guard to slip him through an underground garage door. As she often did, Molly distanced herself from the conversation, partly because of her aversion to small talk, but also because she wanted to study Rusty. While her heart ached for any juvenile stuck on the street, there was a savvy about him, a streetwise common sense that usually took years to develop. She felt two conflicting emotions at once, empathy and caution. She couldn’t be sure if he was telling her the whole truth. Streetwise kids could also be exceptional liars.
They dropped him off in front of the apartment building and drove back to One Police Plaza while they processed the conversation and Rusty’s relationship with Itchy.
“Based on what Rusty told us, I don’t understand why Itchy had the drugs,” she said. “Rusty said Itchy wouldn’t do that, but he was caught with them, and different witnesses saw him with a wad of cash. How else would he make that money?” She glanced at Andre, who had no answer. “When I interrogated him after we found the drugs, he said it was a one-time thing, and I believed him.”
“Mol, you can’t beat yourself up. He’d never given you reason to doubt him. His info always checked out. I believed him, too. It’s really out of character for him. Itchy was low-level. Fencing stolen property was his game. I wonder what changed.”
“He’d had enough of the street life.”
“You know, the cash might be about the numbers.”
“How?”
Andre shrugged. “I don’t know, but getting involved with Rondo was definitely moving into the big leagues—fast.”
Molly shook her head. She prided herself on understanding human motivation and following her gut feelings, and now it was telling her this wasn’t right. She turned to Andre. “You up for doing some research or do you have a hot date?”