Phantom Angel

by David Handler

  “She’s okay,” I said quietly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Why, don’t I sound okay?”

  “No, you sound lonesome and mournful. Do you want to talk? I’m always here for you, you know.”

  “I’m fine, Rita. Really.”

  “Okay, if you say so. Sleep tight, little lamb.”

  I rang off and watched eighteen-year-old Jonquil Beausoleil of Ruston, Louisiana, rub baby oil on her naked self for a little while until I decided that that was a really bad idea and shut down my laptop. Then I lay there staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Not that it’s ever totally dark in the city. There was enough of a glow from the streetlights and neighboring buildings that I could make out the intricate pattern of cracks and water stains in the plaster over my bed. As I studied them I thought about Cricket and wondered why things hadn’t worked out between us. Too soon, probably. My scars had still been fresh. I thought about Rita and how much I missed being with her. I thought about calling one of the numbers in my little black book. Except, well, I don’t have a little black book. So instead I just lay there, restless and alone.

  But I didn’t sleep. I don’t sleep. Not if I can help it.

  That’s when the nightmares come.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “GOT A DELIVERY for a Miss Bo-so-leel from Rosebank Florists,” I announced, standing there in the well-kept lobby of the Crown Towers with the dozen long-stemmed roses that I’d just bought at a shop on Bay Street.

  The uniformed doorman gave me the once over. I was wearing a striped T-shirt, reversed Yankees cap, my third-best pair of four-year-old madras shorts from the Gap and a pair of drug store flip-flops. I passed for seventeen. The doorman was a burly guy in his fifties who looked as if he’d put in a solid two decades as a bouncer in a strip club.

  “Who’s that you say?” he demanded gruffly.

  “Miss Bo-so-leel. Or I guess it could be Mrs. Bo-so-leel. Am I pronouncing that right?”

  “Who do I look like, Alex Trebek?”

  “Well, is this the right building?”

  “I’ll make sure she gets them.”

  “But I’m supposed to make sure gets them.”

  “You just did, Skippy.”

  “She’s supposed to sign for them, I mean.”

  He scribbled his signature across my delivery slip. “Now beat it.”

  I beat it. Strolled a hundred yards down Hylan Boulevard and across the street to my dad’s Caddie. It’s a ’92 burgundy Brougham with a white vinyl top and matching burgundy leather interior. The Brougham had been his pride and joy. These days it’s our company car. I got in, rolled down the windows and took off the Yankee cap and striped T-shirt. I wore a plain white T-shirt underneath. It was Day Four of the Heat Wave of the Century. Supposed to top out at 103 in Central Park that afternoon. Possibly be a degree or two cooler out on Staten Island. Hylan was quiet on a weekday morning. Everyone had gone to work, or so it seemed. A plumbing company van was parked two doors down from the Crown Towers. Not many other cars were parked there.

  I settled in for a long wait. Stakeouts can be downright tedious. I have no idea how long I’m going to be sitting there. So I bring a patient attitude and a ton of supplies. I had my iPod loaded with dozens of my favorite Broadway musicals. I had my laptop, all three New York newspapers and director Elia Kazan’s incredibly candid memoir. I love to read showbiz memoirs, the juicier the better. I had my Nikon D80 with a zoom lens. I had three pairs of sunglasses, a half-dozen baseball caps and a stack of T-shirts in assorted colors. I had a cooler filled with sandwiches from Scotty’s and a dozen bottles of water, since it’s super important to stay hydrated when you’re sitting in a parked car on a hot summer day. I had an empty gallon jug, since it’s also super important to have something to pee into while you’re staying hydrated. I had a toilet kit, a blanket and a pillow. I was prepared to live in that car all day and night if I had to.

  My Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special was locked in the glove compartment, fully loaded in case I needed it. And I have.

  I waited. No one came or went through the front door of the Crown Towers except for the mailman, who had one of those rolling carts that they use. A black Land Rover took off from the underground parking garage. I couldn’t see who was driving it. The windows were tinted. I waited. Had one ham and cheese sandwich, two bottles of water and waited some more, surprised that Morrie hadn’t called me yet to scream at me some more. Possibly his head had exploded.

  I’d been waiting there for about two hours when a beat-up Chevy Impala pulled up behind me and parked. A woman got out from behind the wheel, came around to the Brougham’s passenger door and got in next to me. She was a Latina in her mid-thirties with large, liquid dark eyes and shiny black hair. She wore slacks and a sleeveless cotton blouse.

  “How are you this morning, Mr. Golden?” she asked, her voice brusque and officious.

  “A tad warm but otherwise fine. And you are…?”

  “Sue Herrera. I’m a detective with OCCB.” OCCB is the NYPD’s Organized Crime Control Bureau. “It so happens that we have the Crown Towers under surveillance, Mr. Golden.”

  “The plumbing van, am I right?”

  “My boys ran your plate. As soon as your name came up I called Legs. He told me you’re good people. He didn’t tell me that you and your cute widdle nose just popped out of a Disney cartoon.” She looked at me in amusement. “How old are you anyhow?”

  “Excuse me a sec.” I speed dialed Detective Lieutenant Larry Diamond, better known as Legs because he hates, hates the name Larry. Legs is the top homicide detective in New York City. My dad was his rabbi. He’s like a big brother to me.

  When he picked up, I said, “I’m sitting here on the Island of Staten with a Herrera comma Sue.”

  “Yeah, I was kind of expecting that. She’ll bust your balls but she won’t burn you. Only, listen up, when she asks you if you’re available say no. Don’t go there, little dude.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Whatever you say, Legs.” I rang off.

  “What did he say?” Sue Herrera asked me, her gaze softening. Legs has that effect on most women.

  “That I can trust you.”

  “He told me he’s been trying to get you on the job for two years.”

  “That was my father’s life, not mine.”

  “We need to have a conversation, Mr. Golden.”

  “About what? And make it Benji, will you?”

  “What do you want with Jonquil Beausoleil, Benji?”

  “Sorry, Jonquil who?”

  She heaved a sigh of annoyance. “Don’t play dumb. We’ve flipped the doorman. He passed the word to the mailman, who’s one of ours, that you tried to deliver flowers to her. And now you’re staked out here.”

  “I just really like Staten Island.”

  “And I really don’t like having my chain jerked. You need to move along, Benji. You might set off alarm bells.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. No one ever mistakes me for the law. If anything, I’m a welcome distraction from that dumb-assed plumbing van of yours. Wow, talk about obvious.”

  “We change vans every day,” she said defensively.

  “And the two of us sitting here talking like this? Not exactly my idea of subtle either.”

  She shifted in her seat, looking deeply into my eyes for a moment. Then she slapped me across the face. Hard.

  “What’d you do that for?” I demanded.

  “If anyone in the Crown Towers is watching us they’ll think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel. Besides, the boys in the van needed a good laugh.”

  My cheek stung like hell but I refused to rub it. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “You’re not very nice, are you, Sue Herrera?”

  “I’m not paid to be nice. Neither are you.” She looked at me some more, tilting her head slightly. “You have old eyes. Anyone ever tell you that? Richie, my ex, looked like a grown man but on the ins
ide he was still a boy. You look like a boy yet your eyes tell me you’re a man. How old are you?”

  “Old enough to not get chased off a paying case by a chesty detective from OCCB.”

  “Did you just call me chesty?”

  “Would you prefer busty?”

  “I’d prefer you to get the hell out of here.”

  “I thought we needed to have a conversation.”

  “You’re interested in a webcam girl named Jonquil Beausoleil. Why?”

  “The usual reason.”

  “She’s a runaway?”

  I nodded. “From Ruston, Louisiana. Was supposed to start college this fall. Instead, she dropped out of high school and made her way up here in search of fame and fortune.”

  “Her parents hire you to find her?”

  “Your turn. Why’s OCCB staking out the Crown Towers? I’m aware that Joe Minetta owns it. What’s going on here that you’re so interested in?”

  “That’s need to know, Benji.”

  “As in I don’t?”

  “As in correct.”

  “As in I don’t think we can do business, Sue Herrera.”

  “Legs didn’t tell me you were a stubborn pain.”

  “I’m just trying to do an honest day’s work.”

  She sat there in silence for a moment. “Okay, here’s what worries me. Let’s say you talk to her. What if she tips them off?”

  “Tips them off about what?”

  She didn’t respond. Just stared at me.

  “Sorry, Sue Herrera. I still don’t think we can do business.”

  “Listen, Benji, you can’t just whisk this girl off to La Guardia and put her on the next flight to NOLA. Her hands are dirty. Hers and the others—Luze, Sonya, Little Mutt…”

  “‘Little Mutt’?”

  “The only way that Jonquil Beausoleil’s going home is if she cooperates with our investigation. If you can convince her to do that then maybe I can help you out. What do you say?”

  “I say, nice talking to you, Sue Herrera.”

  “Fine, have it your way. But if you mess up my thing you will be on my bad side. And you won’t like that, Benji.” She reached over and gave my cheek a gentle pat. I didn’t flinch one bit. I want some credit for that. Then she got out, climbed back in her sedan and drove away.

  Thirty minutes later Jonquil Beausoleil came bounding out the front door of the Crown Towers with a nylon gym bag thrown over one shoulder and started her way down the block, her stride brisk and athletic. She wore a yellow tank top cropped above her navel, blue spandex shorts and running shoes. Her long, shimmering blond hair was gathered in a ponytail.

  I waited until she’d turned the corner onto Bay Street before I started up the Brougham and went after her. There was a diner on the corner. A deli, a Chinese take-out place. I pulled up alongside of her with the window rolled down and called out, “Boso, my name’s Benji Golden. We need to talk.”

  She kept right on walking, ignoring me.

  “I’m not a stalker creep. I work for Morrie Frankel. He sent me, okay?”

  She stopped, looking at me in surprise. “Why would he do that?” Her Southern accent was faint but definitely there.

  “Because he’s in trouble. Please get in.”

  She stayed put on the sidewalk in the broiling heat. “Who are you?”

  “Benji Golden. I’m a private investigator. Morrie hired me to find you.”

  “What for? Why didn’t he just call me? I gave him my new cell number.”

  “He has your cell number?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Okay, I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us. Are you playing me?”

  “I’m not playing you. I’m a licensed private investigator. You have absolutely no reason to fear me. Please get in. We need to talk. It’s important.”

  Boso scrunched her mouth over to one side like a teenager, which was exactly what she was. “I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t blame you, but you can trust me. I’m on your side.”

  “No one’s on my side.”

  “Get in, please?”

  She took a hesitant step toward me. “You swear you’re for real?”

  “I swear.”

  She got in, smelling of cool minty toothpaste and warm sweaty girl. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or lipstick. Up close and in person she looked even younger and smaller than she had on my computer screen. Also considerably more ordinary. She was no Hannah Lane. Her complexion wasn’t perfect. Her features weren’t exquisitely sculpted. Her chin, in particular, had a stubborn thrust to it. Jonquil Beausoleil looked exactly like who she’d been up until a few months ago—a pretty, blue-eyed, blond cheerleader. And I still didn’t like what I saw in those blue eyes.

  “How’d you find me?” she wanted to know.

  “It’s what I do.” I eased the Brougham down Bay Street, which was badly potholed and patched. The City doesn’t take very good care of the streets on Staten Island. Or anything else. I drove past her Sharp Fitness Center, which was just past Clifton Avenue next to Tony’s Brick Oven Pizza, and kept on going. “Why did Morrie hire me if he knows how to reach you?”

  Boso gazed at me cautiously. “You tell me. What’d he say?”

  “He said that R. J. Farnell is his last best hope for saving Wuthering Heights, that Farnell has vanished and that you’re the only one who’ll know where he is. I know that it was you who rented the house on Lily Pond Lane. I know that the home and office addresses Farnell gave the realtor were bogus. And that his hedge fund is bogus. So who is he and what the hell’s going on?”

  “Wow, how can anybody be so smart and so dumb at the same time?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t know a thing,” she said, shaking her blond head.

  As I drove by the imposing brick tower of the Church of St. Mary I noticed in my rearview mirror that we had company. An unmarked sedan with two beefy guys in it was staying a careful two cars back. “Oh, hell, why would she go and do that? Where is the trust? Where is the love?”

  “You talk funny.” Boso peered at me from across the seat. “And you look kind of twerpy to be a detective, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t mind. Farmer John says hi, by the way.”

  She blinked at me in astonishment. “How is he?”

  “He misses you. So does Leon.”

  “Who’s Leon?”

  “The kitten.”

  “Oh, right…”

  “John’s in love with you, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’m not. I’m over him.”

  “Totally understandable. He’s tall, handsome, rich, compassionate. Hell, the guy’s nothing but bad news.”

  “He’s a nice guy, but I couldn’t love him back. I’m just all about my career right now. That’s why I left. Did he … does he know what I’m doing for work?”

  “Nope. Neither does your mother.” I glanced over at her. “Or your stepfather.”

  She stiffened instantly, her jaw tightening.

  “How old were you when he started in on you? Fifteen, sixteen? Let me guess—he told you that if you said one word to your mother about it he’d claim you seduced him and you were an evil nympho slut who ought to be locked away somewhere.”

  All of the color had drained from her face. “I—I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was a hollow whisper.

  “Yeah, you do. You don’t have to pretend with me. I saw it in your eyes the first time Morrie showed me your photo. You can see it in my eyes, too, if you care to look closely enough. People like us, we recognize each other.”

  “People like us?”

  “I’m a rape victim, too.”

  She began to breathe rapidly in and out, gulping. “Could you … please pull over?”

  I pulled over to the curb. Our tail pulled over, too. Boso jumped out and threw up her breakfast. She stayed there a moment, doubled over, gasping. Then she got back in, her eyes avo
iding mine.

  “You want something to drink?” I offered. “A breath mint? A premoistened antibacterial towelette?”

  “What are you, a rolling mini-mart?”

  “I like to be prepared.” I steered us back into the flow of traffic, our tail joining us.

  She turned around to check out my supplies in the backseat. “Is that a jug of apple juice on the floor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Okay, eeeeeeew.”

  “There’s water in the cooler.”

  She grabbed herself a bottle and took a long drink.

  “Feel better now?”

  “I’m okay. I must have eaten some bad clams last night.”

  “Try again. You’re a vegan. And don’t bullshit me. Don’t even try. I can see right through you.” We came to a stop at a red light at Willow Avenue, where there was a gas station and not much else. “I need for you to hang on, okay? I’m going to shake our tail.”

  “Someone’s tailing us? Oh, this is just great.”

  “You may want to close your eyes.”

  No sane cop is willing to risk life and limb on a routine tail job. That makes it pretty easy to lose a police tail. You just have to do something incredibly reckless and foolhardy. Like, say, make an illegal left turn from the right lane across an intersection of oncoming traffic while a dozen furious drivers are honking and waving their fists at you and the blonde riding next to you is screaming her head off.

  “I told you to close your eyes,” I reminded her as I floored it down Willow and took the first quick left onto Langere Place. Then I made a screeching left onto Lynhurst Avenue, a right onto Anderson Street and circled my way back to Bay Street by way of St. Mary’s Avenue. I took that back to Hylan Boulevard and then shot way onto the Staten Island Expressway.

  “Hey, wait, where are you taking me?” Boso protested.

  “I’ll bring you right back. I’m not kidnapping you. We’re members of the same club, remember?”

  Boso shifted the gym bag at her feet and stared out the window at the traffic on the expressway, scrunching her mouth to one side again.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said woodenly. “He did whatever he wanted to me because he could. My mom wouldn’t believe me when I told her. Didn’t want to. She thought I blamed him for what happened to my dad. So as soon as I saved enough money I left. That chapter of my life is over now.”