Phantom Angel

by David Handler

  “Their extra-special Gold Club or Premiere Club or whatever the hell they’re calling it,” I said, nodding my head.

  Dytman flared his nostrils at me again. “Supposedly, this buys them exclusive access to all sorts of earthly delights. But do you know what it really means?”

  “Let me take a wild guess,” Legs said. “Do these lonely, horny rubes happen to pay by credit card?”

  “Bingo,” Sue said. “Two entire floors of the Crown Towers are devoted to a high-tech identity theft operation. We’re talking state-of-the-art computers, scanners, encoders, embossing machines, the works. The instant they have access to a guy’s credit card info they steal his ID and clean the sucker out. They move so fast and hard that they’ve maxed out his line of credit and moved on before the slob even knows what’s hit him.”

  “They buy fancy merchandise,” Dytman went on. “Rolex watches, Hermès handbags, Armani leather jackets. They’ve got a climate-controlled storage warehouse with seventeen thousand bottles of wine in it. They’ve got antique furniture. They’ve got paintings. I’m talking about mountains and mountains of loot that’s stashed in Top Hat buildings all over Staten Island.”

  “And it’s the girls who do a lot of the buying,” Sue said. “The boys send them on shopping sprees to fancy stores with their wallets stuffed full of credit cards and driver’s licenses. The girls love it. Makes them feel rich and sophisticated.”

  “It also makes them accessories to credit card fraud,” Cimoli spoke up. “On top of whatever else they’re already doing that’s illegal, by which I mean high-end prostitution. A lot of those girls are on drugs, too.”

  “We don’t know each other very well,” I said to him. “So I’ll try to put this to you tactfully. Please don’t lump all of ‘those girls’ together, okay? Because they’re not all the same, dickwad.”

  “It looks like a boy but it’s a man,” marveled Sue, who was amused.

  Cimoli was not. “How would you know anything about it?”

  “I have a family history.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning let’s move on,” Legs growled impatiently.

  “These boys are clever,” Dytman continued. “They use the stolen credit cards and fake IDs to rent luxury cars, then they steal the cars and ship them out of state. They buy up tickets by the thousands and scalp them. You want front row seats to see Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden? They’ve got them. We are talking about a highly organized, multimillion-dollar criminal enterprise. That, in a nutshell, is Operation Yum-Yum. Got it, Lieutenant?”

  “Got it,” Legs said. “And big ups for the catchy name.”

  Dytman ignored that remark, steering his attention back to me. “The ball’s in your court now. Do you know where Jonquil Beausoleil is?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell us if you did?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like you people very much.”

  “Benji, what’s her connection to Morrie Frankel?” Sue asked.

  “He hired me to find her.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “We like long stories,” she assured me.

  “Love them,” Dytman agreed, craning his itchy neck.

  Cimoli just stood there with his foot on his chair, glowering at me. Possibly it had to do with my use of the word “dickwad.”

  “Wuthering Heights has been in serious financial trouble for months,” I told them. “Morrie Frankel informed me that a British hedge fund billionaire named R. J. Farnell had promised to bail him out to the tune of twelve mil, but that Farnell had disappeared. The best lead he had on Farnell was the guy’s girlfriend, an aspiring young actress named Jonquil Beausoleil. My associates and I were able to track her to the Crown Towers, where I approached her this morning and she informed me that there was, in fact, no such person as R. J. Farnell. He was a phantom angel, which is an old-time scam that Broadway showmen resort to when they’re on the ropes. They invent a shadowy, deep-pocketed moneyman and use him as bait to draw in other investors. Morrie was hoping the ruse would buy him a couple of weeks to raise more money. All it bought him was twenty-four hours. That’s how long it took us to find her.”

  “He shouldn’t have hired the best,” Legs said to me.

  “He shouldn’t have done a lot of things,” I said. “Like tell Jonquil Beausoleil he’d cast her as an understudy in Wuthering Heights if she’d pretend to be Farnell’s girlfriend. Which she was more than happy to do. She thought Morrie had just handed her the biggest break of her career.”

  “How did he come to choose her?” Sue asked me.

  “He didn’t. Joe Minetta put the two of them together.”

  “Why would Minetta do that?” Cimoli asked.

  “Joe Minetta is the biggest loan shark on Broadway. You know that, right?”

  They didn’t respond. Just stared at me.

  “Well, Morrie was in deep to him. Morrie’s assistant, Leah Shimmel, told me that some knuckle draggers even came looking for Morrie at his hotel a couple of weeks ago. This phantom angel scam wasn’t just Morrie’s last, best hope of bringing Wuthering Heights to the stage. It was his way of trying to square things with Minetta.”

  Sue Herrera thought this over. “So you figure they were talking money in Bryant Park?”

  “You tell us,” Legs said. “You’re the ones who had Minetta under surveillance.”

  “We’re reviewing our stroller cams,” she said. “But we generally don’t learn a whole lot when it comes to that man. He’s incredibly careful.”

  “He had two bodyguards parked at a nearby table,” I said. “Did one of them use his cell phone after he and Morrie separated? Or signal anyone?”

  Sue shook her head. “Not that we observed. But if Minetta arranged the hit then it’s possible that it was already set up. No signal required. I can buy that.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Every single day that Morrie was alive Minetta was gobbling up a bigger piece of Wuthering Heights. Now that Morrie’s dead he gets nothing. Somebody else will take over the show. Somebody like Ira Gottfried of Panorama Studios, who couldn’t care less about what Morrie owed Minetta—especially because there’s nothing on paper. They did everything by handshake. Nope, I don’t buy it. Minetta wanted Morrie alive.”

  “So who wanted him dead?” Dytman wondered.

  “Awesome question,” Legs snapped. “I’d like to know that myself. Are you people going to let me start my investigation?”

  “Hey, our clock’s ticking,” Dytman reminded him, glancing at his watch. “We’re down to forty-two minutes.”

  “And we’ve got to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Sue said. “Benji, why were you tailing Morrie Frankel in Bryant Park?”

  “Because he hosed me.”

  “And are you sticking to this story that you don’t know where Jonquil Beausoleil is?” Cimoli demanded.

  “It’s not a story. I don’t know where she is.”

  “We need her in the house,” he said, stabbing at the table with his blunt index finger. “If she’s not home when we raid the Crown Towers then she’s a loose end. And loose ends always come back to bite you in the ass.”

  “Let’s say I can find her…”

  “Let’s,” Sue said eagerly.

  “What’ll you offer her in exchange for her cooperation?”

  “Are you suggesting immunity from prosecution?” Cimoli shook his head at me. “No way. We’ve got her dead to rights for credit card fraud. That’s a federal crime. She’ll have to plead out just like the other girls.” He paused, running a hand over his chrome dome. “Unless she’s got gold for us. And by that I mean game-changing information. If she has something like that we’d listen. Does she?”

  “I honestly have no idea.”

  “This girl needs to be found,” he reiterated, his voice rising with urgency.

  “Agreed,” Legs said. “Except I’m bringing her in, not you.”

  �
�Why?” Cimoli demanded.

  “Because she’s a person of interest in my homicide investigation.”

  “You’re out of your league here, Lieutenant,” Cimoli told him. “Need I point out that this is federal?”

  “Need I point out that I don’t give a shit? And neither will Commissioner Feldman.” Legs reached for his cell. “Let’s include him in your little pissing contest.”

  Cimoli’s gaze hardened. “So you’ve got major juice at One PP. I know that. You don’t have to show off.”

  “I’m not the one who’s showing off,” Legs said as the cell rang in his hand. He peered at the screen and took the call. Listened. Listened some more. Then said, “Okay, right.” Rang off and got up out of his chair. “We just found the Navigator. They ditched it in Queens behind a beauty salon on Woodhaven Boulevard. I’d love to stay here and chat with you folks but I’ve got an actual job to do. You do yours, I’ll do mine and as far as I’m concerned we have nothing more to talk about. Come on, Benji. Let’s bounce.”

  “We’re not done here, Lieutenant!” Cimoli roared at him.

  Legs came to a halt, his right knee jiggling, jiggling.

  “Here’s how I’m reading the situation,” Cimoli put forward. “This Beausoleil girl qualifies as a definite loose end. But she does not, in and of herself, constitute a concrete reason for us to hit the pause button on our raid. Let’s say she turns out to be your Bryant Park shooter. So what? A Broadway producer lied to a young actress. The young actress got really pissed off at him. That’s got nothing to do with us. Am I right, Lieutenant?”

  Legs stood there thinking it over. Gino Cimoli waited anxiously for his reply. So did Jack Dytman and Sue Herrera. All three of them were gazing at him with expectant looks on their faces. It never fails to amaze me how nobody wants be the one who makes the final call. Fear of fucking up. Their lives are ruled by fear of fucking up.

  “You want to know what I think?” Legs responded. “If I were you, what I’d be most concerned about right now is my murder investigation shining an unwanted light on your operation. Possibly even provoking the Minettas into cutting and running. My advice? Move in fast.”

  Dytman studied him carefully. “Proceed as planned, you mean?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t even think about it. Just do it.” Legs let out an antsy sigh. “You need us for anything else?”

  “You’ll know it when we do,” Cimoli answered with a sneer.

  And with that Legs and I took off.

  “I see a genuine bromance brewing between you and Cimoli,” I said as we strode to the elevator. “Maybe even the three of you taking a trip to Barbados together—just you, Cimoli and Cimoli’s ego.”

  “He’s standard government issue,” Legs said dismissively. “Big head, glass jaw. So, listen, I’ll be humping the surveillance cams and forensics tonight. And I’ve got detectives paying courtesy calls on Matthew Puntigam and Hannah Lane, on Henderson Lebow and on Ira Gottfried. The NYPD’s reaching out with kid gloves to answer any questions they might have about their near and dear friend Morrie Frankel.” He punched the button for the elevator—once, twice, three times. “This way they’ll be feeling kindly toward the department when I have a go at them myself tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at nine. I want you by my side. You down with that?”

  “Totally. Does this mean we’re working the case together?”

  “No, it means you actually comprehend who’s screwing who and I don’t.”

  “Sure sounds to me like we’re working the case together.”

  “We’re not working the case together.”

  “Whatever you say.” The elevator arrived. We got in. I watched him punch the CLOSE DOOR button once, twice, three times before the door finally closed and we started riding down. “Anything I can do to help before then?”

  “Yeah. It would be fairly huge if you could find Jonquil Beausoleil.”

  “Not a problem.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “You really think you can find her?”

  “I found her once. I’ll find her again.”

  Actually, it turned out to be a whole lot easier than I thought. I didn’t have to find Boso at all. She found me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE WAS SITTING ON Mom’s office sofa in her cropped tank top and spandex shorts drinking a bottle of mineral water. Gus was sprawled next to her offering her his belly to rub, which he seldom does with a total stranger. Make that never.

  Mom smiled at me warmly from behind her desk. “There, you see? I told you my Benji would be home soon.”

  I gazed at Boso in silence as Mom’s window air conditioner racketed away. Boso gazed back at me, her haunted blue eyes narrowing.

  It was dusk by now. I’d moved the Brougham from the garage near Lincoln Center to the one around the corner on Amsterdam where we usually keep it. I’d removed my Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment and tucked it into my daypack.

  “Boso and I were just having a very interesting conversation about anatomy,” Mom added. “Did you know that giraffes and mice have the same exact number of—”

  “Nineteen. We have seven. Yeah, I’m fully up to speed on that.”

  “I totally thought you were kidding me,” Boso said, her words tumbling out nervously. “When you told me your mother used to be a pole dancer, I mean. And Rita’s gorgeous. I’d give anything to be that tall. I felt like a danged troll standing next to her.”

  I looked at Mom. “And Rita is…?”

  “Spending quality time with Myron.”

  I sat in one of the chairs opposite Mom’s desk. I looked at Miss Jonquil Beausoleil of Ruston, Louisiana. Looked at her gym bag that was on the floor next to the sofa. Looked back up at her and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello to you, too. How’s your apple juice?”

  “What are you doing here?” I repeated, louder this time.

  “You gave me your card,” she said, stroking Gus’s belly. “Remember?”

  “I do remember. I also remember that you tore it into pieces. So let’s try it one more time. What are you doing here?”

  “I got scared when I heard that somebody shot Morrie,” she confessed, swallowing.

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  “At the big Ralph Lauren store on Madison Avenue. Two of the sales clerks were talking about it. It was all over the Internet, I guess. And I thought, like, what if I’m next?”

  “Why would you be next?”

  “I don’t know, okay? But right after it happened one of Little Joe’s flunkies, Paulie, called me on the disposable cell they gave me and he was, like, ‘Why are you so late getting back from the gym?’ When I told him I was at the Ralph Lauren store he said, ‘You didn’t tell us you were going there.’ And I was, like, ‘What am I, a prisoner?’ And he was, like, ‘Stay put. I’m sending someone to pick you up.’ I told him I’d just catch a cab.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Came straight here.”

  “Say hello to our new client, Bunny,” Mom said brightly.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Benji, why are you asking me so many—?”

  “Did you take a cab?”

  “I walked. Across Central Park, then up Central Park West to 103rd.”

  “That’s a mighty long walk in this heat.”

  “I needed the exercise. You kidnapped me before I could get to the gym, remember? Besides, we don’t call this hot where I come from. We call it picnic weather.”

  “What did you do with your cell phone?”

  “Tossed it in a trash can on Madison Avenue right away.”

  “Smart girl,” Mom said approvingly.

  “Don’t use one of our landlines to call anyone. Don’t send off any e-mails either. You’ve disappeared, got it? Mom, has anyone stopped by with a delivery since she got here? A messenger service, FedEx…?”

  Mom shook her head. “The only other person who knows she’s here is Rita.”

 
“Good.” I got up and began pacing around the office, my wheels spinning. “It so happens, Boso, that a whole lot of people want to know where you are. If we’re going to stick our necks out for you then we have to know everything.”

  She leveled her gaze at me. “Ask me anything you want to know.”

  “Did you shoot Morrie Frankel?”

  “No way,” she answered angrily. “Why would I?”

  “Because you were furious with him. You told me you’d make him sorry. That could be construed as a threat.”

  She sat there stroking Gus, who gazed up at her adoringly with his urine-colored eyes. “Sure, I was mad. But it’s not like I’d shoot a guy just for lying to me.”

  “Boso makes a good point there, Bunny,” Mom said. “If we went around shooting every man who lied to us then there wouldn’t be any of you left on the planet.”

  “Besides, I don’t even have a gun. Don’t like them.”

  I snatched her gym bag from the floor. The one that was so heavy and clunky. I unzipped it.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  There was a change of clothes inside. A cropped tank top, yellow. A pair of spandex shorts, blue. And a thong, pink. Underneath the clothes lay a blue metal disc with handles. It was about the size of a dinner plate. The words SMART BELLS LITE were stamped on it.

  “I use that for my ab crunches,” Boso said defensively. “What’d you think—that it was a gun?”

  “Where were you at the time of the shooting?”

  “At the Ralph Lauren store. I just told you.”

  “Their security cams will clear you. If you’re telling us the truth, that is. Did you buy anything while you were there?”

  Boso shook her blond head.

  “Do you still have the credit cards they gave you?”

  “No, I tossed them when I tossed the phone,” she replied, glaring at me. “And you want to know something? I’m starting to think I made a real mistake coming here. You said you’d help me. You’re not. You’re just being a butthead.”

  I sat back down, lacing my hands behind my head. “Maybe that’s because I’ve just spent a fun-filled hour at twenty-six Federal Plaza being grilled by a U.S. attorney, an FBI agent and a lieutenant from the NYPD’s Organized Crime task force. Maybe it’s because at this exact minute they are in the process of raiding the Crown Towers.”