Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  “Okay. We’re on. But again, I don’t want to intrude…”

  Dakota’s laugh was a little too loud and giddy, but Tess attributed it to preshow adrenaline.

  “Oh, no, I totally want your take on him,” the younger woman insisted. “Just don’t try to steal him. He’s all mine.”

  Another laugh, this time with a faint edge to it, and then Dakota was marching away, hips swaying, her friends giggling like schoolgirls at some unheard joke Tess wasn’t privy to.

  Tess watched Dakota depart, keenly aware that her cousin was embarking on a journey that had been years in the making, while she was wallowing in directionless ambivalence, with no real sense of purpose or desire beyond getting through the day. A part of her envied the younger woman, with her focus and her animated excitement, and when she turned the corner and disappeared, Tess felt, for the first time since returning to the city, like there was nothing there for her other than phantoms of the past – a past that had vanished like smoke, leaving her a puzzled survivor without a home.

  She shook off the melancholy, texted Ron the name of the restaurant, and after a few moments received a confirmation that he’d do his best to meet her after the performance. She sighed and stared at the screen, and wondered not for the first time what the hell she was doing back in New York, and where she thought a tryst with a shopworn homicide detective would eventually lead. Tess stood rooted to the spot as a tide of humanity surged past her, feeling as alone as she’d ever been, an insignificant speck in a world that had moved on without her.

  Chapter 10

  Ron arrived at the ground floor of the midtown precinct and made his way to the interrogation room, where Ben was waiting for him with a dossier in his hand. Ben briefed him on the woman seated inside.

  “Name’s Monique Delgado. Twenty-seven going on fifty. Got a jacket for possession and hooking a mile long,” Ben concluded.

  “You make it sound so ugly.”

  The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched and he nodded solemnly. “Everyone’s just trying to get by.”

  “What’s she charged with this time?”

  “Prostitution. The usual. Working one of the Times Square hotel bars, pitched one of our vice guys. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but hey.”

  “But you believe she’s telling the truth?”

  “As much as any of ’em.”

  “Well, that pumps me full of hope,” Ron said with a sigh. “Fine. You play bad guy, but only if I give you the thumbs-up.”

  “You got it.”

  Ben pulled the steel door wide, and Ron entered and took a seat across from a small Puerto Rican woman whose makeup and demeanor announced her profession as clearly as a business card. Ron offered a smile and was heartened when she returned it.

  Ron cleared his throat and looked to Ben before settling his attention on her. “So, Monique, my associate here tells me that you claim to have some information on one of the women in the videos that appeared on television?” he asked, his tone friendly and inquisitive.

  Monique nodded. “Mmm-hmm, that’s right. The second one.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Sure as my birthday,” she said, and then her eyes narrowed. “But I can’t seem to remember all that good with these charges hanging over my head.”

  “That’s a shame. Seems like you could use a few friends on the force right about now,” Ron countered.

  “Always got a sweet spot for our boys in blue. So how ’bout you help me out, and I do the same?”

  “Depends on what you’ve got to trade, Monique.” Ron sat back. “You know how this works.”

  “What I know is I got two baby girls need to eat, and they ain’t seen they mama since yesterday. What I got to tell you is gold. Who she is, for starters.” She looked at Ben. “You even know her name?”

  Ron held up a hand. “We’ll ask the questions, Monique.”

  She nodded in triumph. “That’s what I thought. Come on, man, we losing time, you know? Got to play Let’s Make a Deal. Right now, I’m doors one, two, and three, way I sees it.”

  “You’ve got a long jacket, Monique. And this is a solid bust.”

  “Maybe so. Or maybe nobody cares what a girl’s got to do to get by in the big city, and it’s time served and nothing else.”

  “Could be. Also could be that I put in a word with the DA and he shoots for sixty days based on priors. Be a shame not to see your babies for that long, wouldn’t it?”

  “Make it go away, and I talk. Otherwise I takes my chances,” she said obstinately.

  Ben was sitting forward like a pit bull straining at the leash. Ron gave the younger man a curt shake of the head and locked eyes with Monique.

  “Fine, Monique. You have something solid, you skate.”

  “I want it in writing.”

  “Tell me what you have, first, and I’ll make a phone call for permission to get it drafted.”

  “I know her name. What she was into. All that kind of shit.”

  Ron and Ben exchanged a glance, and Ben rose and moved to the door. “I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving Ron and Monique alone. Monique adjusted her pink Day-Glo tube top and smoothed her hair with a wink.

  “Boy new on the job?”

  Ron offered a conciliatory smile. “I think he’s just overwhelmed by your charms.”

  They both laughed and any tension evaporated, Monique secure that she’d talked her way clear of the bust. “Maybe he qualify for a professional discount.”

  “That’s generous.”

  She gave him an impish grin and shrugged. “Comin’ up on the holidays.”

  Ben returned with two sheets of paper and a pen. He read one aloud and signed it, and signed the second and handed it to her. “I tear that up if you’re full of it.” He extracted a voice recorder and set it on the table. “You’re on tape,” he said, and announced the date and time.

  “Chill out, Youngblood. Girl’s name was Cindy Kerrick. Street name Dusty. Did a little film work back a few years ago to make ends meet. Low-end shit, amateur threesomes, that kind of thing.” Monique paused. “She high end now, you know? Couple grand a pop.”

  “Yeah? Why so pricey?” Ron asked.

  “She appointment only, and the girl do shit most won’t, you know? Serious kink.”

  “Like what?”

  Monique made a face. “Like anything you want, she don’t care. All a matter of price.”

  “You know her well?” Ron asked.

  “I seen her around.”

  “It’s a big town. She work hotels too?”

  “No, not like that. I seen her at parties, you know?”

  “I don’t. What kind of parties?”

  “Sex.”

  “Sex parties?” Ron asked.

  Monique looked away. “That and more.”

  “Like for swingers?”

  “More like a kink show. We do it, they watch. More extreme, the better for them.”

  Ron absorbed that. “Where?”

  “All over. Clubs. Houses. Whatever.”

  “Come on, Monique, you’ll have to do better than that. How often do they have them, and who hosts them?”

  She shrugged. “Only did a couple. Too weird for me.”

  “Weird in what way?”

  “Every way you can think of.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Gang bangs for rich folks. Animals. Seriously dangerous shit, some of it. Not my thing.”

  “What rich folks? Specifically, where?”

  “Did two off the island. They brought us in a van. Don’t know exactly what the address was or nothing, but I had to take a week off after the last one. Too rough for me.”

  “You think Dusty’s murder might have had something to do with the parties?” Ron asked.

  “Don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. How I know that?”

  “I’m asking your opinion, Monique. Help me out here.”

  “I think when you the girl don’t mind getting beat up and thre
e-on-one while some ol’ dude jerk it, you headed for a bad end, you know?”

  “Did she have a pimp? Who got her the gigs?”

  “That ain’t none of my business.”

  Ron’s expression hardened. “Monique, you want to walk out of here with no questions asked, or you want to play hardball?”

  “I already told you plenty. For real.”

  “Who did she work for, Monique?” Ron pressed.

  “I heard she tight with a dude name of DJ Endo, you know?”

  Ron frowned. “DJ Endo? You jerking my chain, Monique?”

  “Nuh-huh. That’s his handle. He works at a bunch of clubs, gets around, does some real hardcore places.”

  “Hardcore, like the kink parties?”

  She looked away. “Man hear tell I rolled on him, you going to find me cut up.”

  “He violent?”

  “Man got to do what he got to do to keep his girls in line, just like the rest.”

  “He’ll never hear anything from us, Monique. Where does he hang out?”

  She gave him a list of clubs, none of which Ron had ever heard of. When she was finished, he read them back to her. “Where are these places?”

  “Most of them are, like, invite only, you know? Back rooms, warehouses, that kind of thing.”

  “How do we find them?”

  She shrugged. “Talk to vice. They should know if they isn’t asleep at the wheel.”

  Ten more minutes of questioning went by, but it was obvious Monique had shared all she was going to. When a knock sounded from the door, Ron stayed seated while Ben answered it, and was surprised when he approached and whispered in his ear.

  “Captain wants to see you.”

  Ron’s eyebrows rose. “In the middle of an interrogation? Tell him to wait.”

  “I’ll finish up. We’re done anyway.”

  Ron frowned but stood. “Fine. Page me once you’re through.” He addressed Monique sternly. “Stay out of trouble. Your baby girls deserve a decent life.”

  “Yeah, I just waiting to hear back from Golman ’bout that trading job,” she said with a dry laugh.

  Ron waved, left the room, and followed a uniformed officer to the elevators.

  When Ron arrived at the captain’s office, Larraby looked like he was suffering from terminal indigestion, his face beet red, furrows etched into his face from scowling. The captain motioned at a chair and spoke into his squawk box.

  “Mayor, Ron Stanford just joined us.”

  “Hello, Stanford,” a bombastic voice called out.

  “Hello, Mayor,” Ron replied.

  “I was just telling the captain that I’m getting a lot of heat to do something about the case. So I’ve called a press conference for this evening to announce a joint task force – NYPD and FBI. Are you making any progress?”

  Ron glared at Larraby. “Haven’t had the case very long.”

  “People are edgy, Stanford. They want action. So far we’ve come up empty, and that’s not sitting well.”

  “We can only follow the threads we have. These things take time.”

  The mayor cleared his throat and cranked his intensity down several notches. “Tell me you have something other than the bodies, Stanford.”

  “We’re looking at a few promising angles.”

  “Such as?”

  “I can’t discuss them at this juncture. Too sensitive,” Ron said.

  “You have my word I won’t tell a soul. Now spill the beans.”

  “We just identified the second victim. She was a working girl.”

  “That’s it?” the mayor demanded.

  “I’m afraid so, sir. I’m still waiting for forensics to get back to me with a few loose ends.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing definitive. Standard fare,” Ron hedged.

  The mayor was silent for a moment. “So this twisted bastard’s chopping up hookers? That’s all we know?”

  “I told you, sir, we don’t have a lot. Although it appears she was involved in some sort of pornography ring.”

  “Porno? Big deal.”

  “Sex parties, too.”

  The mayor’s voice changed. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “Save it for the suits, Stanford. Is that really everything you’ve got?”

  “You’ll be the first to know when I learn more.”

  The mayor hung up after another minute of drilling Stanford, and Larraby studied him over his reading glasses. “I kept you out of it as long as I could.”

  “We both know a task force is going to do nothing but slow me down.”

  “Not exactly racing toward a solution now, are you?”

  “I just discovered the kink-party thing. I was questioning a witness when you pulled me away.”

  Larraby nodded. “Sorry, but you know how this works. From now on, you’re the NYPD face on the case. Told you it was just a matter of time.”

  “I’m going to stonewall at the press conference.”

  Larraby pursed his lips. “Nobody does it better. It’s at seven. City hall. Wear a tie.”

  Ron stood. “If he breathes a word of any of this, it could set us back any ground we’ve gained, and we’ll know where it came from.”

  “He’s the mayor, Ron. What are we going to do? Arrest him?” Larraby sighed again. “He won’t talk. He’s just worried, is all. I know him well enough by now. He just wants to understand how long his ass will be hanging out over this.”

  Ron grunted and made for the door. “That makes two of us.”

  Back at his desk, Ron called his contact in the vice squad and explained his interest in locating the pimp DJ Endo. The detective, Shelly Romero, a petite woman Ron had known for years who had her finger on the pulse of every questionable venue in Manhattan, agreed to put out feelers, but promised nothing.

  “We don’t have much on him, Ron. His real name’s Juan Aguilar, twenty-nine, last known address four years old in Queens. There were a couple of charges that never went anywhere – lack of evidence. He’s low profile, according to his jacket,” she said. “What’s a nice guy like you doing looking for an ass-wipe like Endo?”

  “He could be material in a case I’m working. What are the odds he’s still in Queens?”

  “Send a car by to check, but my guess is slim to none. These guys don’t stay put very long.”

  “My witness says he works the city. Does kink parties.”

  Romero was silent for a beat. “That means he’s going to be even harder to find. Those are seriously underground, all word-of-mouth.”

  “You busted any lately?”

  “It’s a fine line. What consenting adults do behind closed doors is none of our business unless we can prove prostitution or drug dealing. The courts haven’t been our friend on these. The DA shies away from prosecuting because the names involved are usually high profile.”

  “Anything you can do to help, I’d owe you one, Shelly.”

  “Sounds like you want him bad.”

  Ron studied a still photo captured from the second tape. “In the worst way.”

  Chapter 11

  The Met audience applauded as the conductor moved to his podium and bowed to the crowd, and the orchestra began playing the overture. A hush fell over the theater, and soon after, the curtain went up and the ballet began. Tess sat back in her seat and watched the same dancers who that afternoon had shuffled through their steps in every manner of warming apparel transform into ethereal beings unbound by gravity.

  When Dakota came onstage, she seemed to glow, and Tess had to stifle the gasp that rose in her chest at her cousin’s appearance as one of the swans. As the ballet progressed, the famous pas de quatre of the four cygnets drew an ovation, and Tess flushed with pride. She wanted to stand and yell at the top of her lungs that the most talented dancer on the stage was her cousin, but restrained herself, instead marveling at the effortless grace with which Dakota displayed every movement.

  When the c
urtain came down on the fourth act, Tess was drained from the experience, like she had been on an emotional roller coaster. Her hands stung from applauding. After the final curtain call, she rose and filed out with the rest of the crowd, most of whom were far older than she.

  She switched her phone from silent and checked for messages and, after using the restroom, exited the theater. Ron hadn’t responded to the text she’d sent just before the ballet had started, so she assumed he was otherwise occupied. She hoped that he was having an easier night of it than his last few, because based on what he’d told her, he’d been burning the candle to a nub. He’d complained about working well into the night by way of apologizing for being unavailable, which she completely understood, based on the seemingly endless sensationalistic press coverage of the horrific Rose Killer murders.

  The restaurant was six blocks away, tucked between a closed market and a dry cleaner. Its interior was chic and contemporary, and the clientele urban and good-looking. A severe hostess in a short navy blue dress asked Tess when she entered whether she had a reservation. Tess explained that she was headed for the bar, which was three-quarters full with hip young things sipping martinis, engaged in a smug mating ritual that celebrated their elite sophistication. Tess hated that crowd, her disdain a throwback to her messenger days, preferring the grungy dives on the Lower East Side, where the beer was an honest pour and the watering holes unpretentious. She had to remind herself that those days were gone – that this was her new reality. Besides, she was there for Dakota, and she could see the appeal of this scene to a young woman fresh to the city. It personified everything many believed New York should be: the music was edgy, in a formulaic way, and everyone looked prosperous and civilized, their haircuts expensive, their cocktails only slightly less so.

  She ordered a cosmopolitan and settled onto an empty stool that a man about her age sporting a raw silk jacket and a three-hundred-dollar shirt vacated for her when he saw her waiting. Tess endured the expected overture, thanked him for the seat, and resumed watching the door for her cousin and, hopefully, Ron.

  Tess was halfway through her drink when Dakota burst into the room with a tall man in tow. She took him in with a glance – exactly as expected, she thought. Five o’clock shadow, fashionably cut suit evidencing he’d come straight from work, a boyish smile on a tanned face that would have been at home on a tennis pro, and a worldly, playful sparkle in his cobalt eyes.