Little Girl Lost (Hard Case Crime)

by Richard Aleas

  She seemed to accept that, grudgingly. “How long will this go on?” she said

  “Not long,” I said. “I think we’re getting pretty close.”

  Andrew Kodos had a suite in an old skyscraper on Fortysecond and Lex. Beautiful Art Deco carvings on the outside of the building, soaring lobby, but by the time you got up to the eighth floor, you weren’t surprised any more that a guy who booked strippers for a living worked here. The hallway was poorly lit and dingy. At one end, a mop and bucket had been abandoned. There was a locked men’s room and a women’s room whose door was propped open with a block of wood. In between were five doors advertising five separate businesses. This being Saturday, all but one of the doors were dark.

  The one with light behind it said “Kodos Theatrical Representation” in gold letters on the pebbled glass. I wondered if his theatrical work involved handling anyone other than strippers. But I knew the choice of wording was probably just to avoid spooking the building management. It was the same reason Leo had finally settled on “Hauser Consulting Services” for our door.

  I pressed the button by the doorknob, then knocked on the glass when I didn’t hear anything buzzing or chiming. I saw a shadow approach through the glass. The door swung open. “Come in, come in.” Kodos looked behind me, saw no one else in the hall, and shut the door.

  He was a well-fed specimen, extra pounds pressing the limits of his belt, which was straining at its last hole, and his shirt collar, which looked tight even unbuttoned. A blue necktie hung at half-mast, knotted but loosened as far as it would go. He wiped his hand on the leg of his pants before extending it to me but when I shook it his palm still felt damp against mine.

  “You spoke to my partner earlier today,” I said. “We’re opening a club downtown.”

  “Sure, I remember. It’s good to meet you. Where’s your partner?”

  “Something came up at the last minute,” I said. “She’s sorry she couldn’t come.”

  “Me, too. She sounded like a good-looking young woman.” He coughed into his hand. “Excuse me. Every January I get a cold. Like clockwork. So where’s this club of yours going to be?”

  What had Susan said, the West Village? “You know where Calder Street is, near the West Side Highway?” Fortunately, it looked like he didn’t. “That’s where we’ll be.”

  “And how’d you hear about Tracy?”

  “I didn’t, my partner did. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Well, you won’t be disappointed. She’s the best.” He led me through a short corridor lined on either side with framed eight-by-tens of women in all sorts of outfits: stockings and garters, boas and headdresses, bikinis and evening gowns. You could tell from the hairstyles that some of the photos went back to the eighties, some to the seventies. There were even a few black-and-white shots that looked older still. Many of the photos were signed: To Andy, the greatest agent in the world! Love, Cherry. Or Asia, or Crystal, or Jet.

  “How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

  “Signed my first girl in 1962,” he said, pointing to a photo. “Maxine Murray. Danced under the name ‘Sissy.’ Can you imagine a dancer calling herself ‘Sissy’ now?” He shook his head at the wonder of the world. “That was before you were even born. How old are you anyway?”

  “Old enough,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all.” He opened the door to his office. “Tracy, I want you to meet—” He waited for me to fill in my name.

  “John Blake,” I said. I held my hand out and she leaned forward in her seat to shake it. She could have stood up, but that wouldn’t have given me a view of her breasts pressing forward against the front of her scoop neck T-shirt. It was a thin shirt and her dark skin showed through the white fabric. I could see that she was wearing small rings through her nipples. If I’d looked closer, I could probably have told whether they were silver or gold.

  “Andy, would you mind if I talked to Tracy alone for a minute?”

  He looked puzzled, but he said, “Sure. Sure.” Then he told Tracy, “He’s opening a club down on... where was it?”

  “Calder Street,” I said.

  “Calder Street. And they want you for the opening. I told him you’d be perfect for it.”

  “Did you?” she said. But she was looking at me rather than at Kodos, and somewhere along the way it had turned into a skeptical look. I wondered what I’d said or done wrong.

  “So, you kids talk. Just don’t forget to bring me back in before you talk money.” He patted me on the shoulder. “That desk folds out into a bed in case you need it.” Then, to Tracy, “What? What? I’m joking!” He backed out of the office and drew the door shut behind him. I waited for his silhouette to disappear.

  “Tracy—”

  “You’re not really opening a club, are you?” she said.

  I hesitated for a second, then shook my head.

  “Then, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll put my shirt back on.” She pulled a folded flannel shirt from under the chair and buttoned it up over her T-shirt.

  “What gave me away?” I said.

  She held up a fist and unfolded fingers from it one by one. “First of all, I’ve never seen a club owner or manager who looked like you. You look like some prep school kid from the Upper West Side. Second, Calder Street’s two blocks long and there’s a church on one of them. No way the city’s going to let you open a titty bar where the faithful might have to look at it. Third, I seem to remember a friend of mine telling me about a John Blake who was passing out business cards to the girls at the club where she works, asking questions about Miranda Sugarman. As it happens, I knew Miranda Sugarman.”

  “I know.”

  “So the name stuck in my mind. John Blake. I may even have your card in here somewhere.” She lifted a handbag that was hanging from one arm of the chair.

  “That’s okay. I’ll give you a new one.” I fished one out of my wallet. She looked at it, slipped it into the breast pocket of her lumberjack shirt.

  “So, you want to tell me why you’re wasting my time on this beautiful Saturday afternoon?”

  “I guess you know I’m a private detective. My firm’s been looking into Miranda’s death. I understand you knew her partner, too. Jocelyn Mastaduno.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, we’re trying to find her. Do you have any idea where Jocelyn is now?”

  “Why?”

  “We think she might know something about what happened.”

  “Know something like what?”

  “Like what happened.”

  Tracy folded her arms over her chest. “You’d better start talking straight, or I’m walking out that door.”

  “Miranda was killed by two gunshots fired at close range into the back of her head. The person who did it had to be someone who was able to get close to her, someone Miranda trusted.”

  “You think Jocelyn killed her?”

  “It’s one possibility. We’d like to rule it out.”

  “No way,” she said. “I’m not saying I can’t imagine Jocelyn doing something crazy — the girl had her issues. But there’s no way she would kill Miranda. She was still in love with her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she was. She couldn’t go two nights without mentioning her name. She kept her fucking picture up on the wall. Even after I moved in, she wouldn’t take it down.”

  “You lived with her?”

  “Not for long. I don’t mind the occasional three-way, but I’m not competing with some girl’s not even there. And Jocelyn was a little too crazy for me — too needy, too high strung. But none of that makes her a killer.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “But if she didn’t do it, someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like she did. She might be in danger herself, frankly. I’d at least like to talk to her, get her side of the story.”

  She closed her eyes, leaned her head back. “Don’t bullshit me. You think she did it.”

  I
didn’t say anything for a while and neither did she.

  “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  “When Miranda moved out, Jocelyn had the apartment all to herself, and she asked me to stay with her, so I moved in. You know how long it lasted? Two months. I couldn’t take it. Every word out of her mouth was Miranda this and Miranda that, and did I think she’d call, and what should she say if she did. It was like they were a married couple and I was just some one-night stand Jocelyn had hooked up with.”

  “The way you describe it, I’m surprised it lasted two months.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “But when you’re in the middle of it, you always think you’re going to be able to make it work. The problem is, someone like Jocelyn, there’s just no way. She needed to get Miranda out of her system, but she couldn’t.”

  That sounded like a perfect recipe for murder to me, even if you didn’t take the circumstances of the burglary into account. But I didn’t say so. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Been close to a year now. I called her once after I moved out, but she never called back.”

  “Do you think she’s still living in the same apartment?”

  “I have no idea. Probably.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Down in Alphabet City, near the water,” she said.

  “You remember the address?”

  “Before I answer that,” she said carefully, “I want to know what you’re going to do with it.”

  “I’m going to go talk to her. That’s all.” She stared at me and I held her eyes.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “For God’s sake, Tracy you want it straight? I’ll give it to you straight. It’s not just Miranda that’s dead. Four people are dead because of Jocelyn. I don’t know for sure whether she shot Miranda, but I do know she shot a man named Wayne Lenz yesterday.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I was there.” I bent my head forward. “She gave me this. Hit me with a heavy statue so hard it shattered, then took my gun and used it to kill a man she’d been working with.”

  She was silent.

  “And that’s not the half of it. There’s a drug dealer involved, and even if I drop the case right now, he’s not going to, because she’s got a half million dollars of stolen money that he wants back. Do you understand, Tracy? She’s in way over her head. I know you want to protect her, but you can’t.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to help you find her,” she said.

  “No, it doesn’t. And I’m sure you’ll be glad you didn’t help me if she decides to come after you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are professional killers looking for her. The only thing keeping her alive is her anonymity. You know where she lives, you know what she looks like — why wouldn’t she come after you?”

  She started to say something, then stopped herself. I waited her out. “She’s just a screwed-up girl,” she said. “She’s not a killer.”

  “And I’m telling you she is. Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

  I waited some more while she wrestled with her decision.

  “Hell with it,” she said finally. “It’s the top floor apartment at 51 Avenue D. Facing the street.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I got up and walked to the door.

  “You won’t tell her I gave you the address, will you?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “And what are you going to tell Andy?”

  “I’ll tell him I think you’re perfect, then I’ll call him next week and tell him the financing fell through, the club’s not going to open after all. That way he won’t blame you.”

  “Fine.” She sounded sullen, or maybe just disgusted with herself. Or with me.

  “Listen, Tracy, I’m sorry about using a ruse to get you in here. I wish I did have a job to give you.”

  “Oh, you gave me a job,” she said. “You just didn’t pay me my thirty pieces of silver for doing it.”

  Chapter 25

  If you read the Village Voice, it sounds like Alphabet City has become hopelessly gentrified over the past ten years, all the quaint, stoop-sitting crackheads and heroin addicts replaced with Starbucks junkies out for a double latte. It’s only true up to a point. I still wouldn’t want to be caught east of Avenue C after dark.

  But that’s where I was headed, and the sky wasn’t getting any lighter. In the summer you’d see guys with boomboxes hanging out till eight, nine at night, and though you knew some of them were up to no good, you also knew some of them were just enjoying what passed for fresh air in this part of town. You’d see some women on the streets, too, and not only hookers. You didn’t get the feeling that all the honest people were locked up indoors, leaving the streets to the predators. But it was not summer now, and in the winter the combination of the early darkness and the bone-chilling cold kept everyone off the streets who had someplace better to go.

  I didn’t. I had one place to go and only one, and it was on Avenue D, as far east as you could walk before you hit the waterfront housing projects, the FDR Drive, and then the East River itself. The wind blew harder as you got closer to the water. There were few tall buildings here to block it, mostly just red brick tenements and little Spanish churches. When the wind came from the east, you could smell the river on it. It stank of diesel fuel.

  I wasn’t the only one on the streets, but in some ways I’d have preferred it if I had been. I passed two young men walking together, and we all eyed each other as we passed. It was at times like this that I wished I looked older, bigger, harder. Tracy wasn’t so far off with her description, and this was not a neighborhood for slumming prep school kids.

  I crossed Avenue C and walked east on Sixth Street, where the concentration of churches was highest. Iglesia Cristiana, Abounding Grace, Emmanuel Presbyterian, all on one block — it was a little safer, I figured, than the blocks on either side. But then the churches were behind me and the avenue I turned onto had nothing warm and welcoming on it. A few bodegas, some shuttered with metal gates, some open behind grimy windows. One Chinese restaurant. There were two men in khaki jackets transacting some business under the awning of what had once been a butcher shop and now had a big “Store for Rent” sign in the window. The one who pocketed the money fell into step beside me as I passed.

  “Smoke, smoke,” he muttered under his breath — though why he bothered to keep quiet, I don’t know. There wasn’t a cop for blocks around.

  “No, thanks.” I shook his fingers off my sleeve.

  “Come on, man. I’ve got good shit.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m not buying.”

  “That’s cool, man. How about just helping a brother out, cold night like this.” He had a hand out, and I was tempted to give him something just to make him go away, but that was a path I knew better than to go down. Not because he was a drug dealer — the hell with that. Just because once I took anything out of my pocket, he’d want whatever else I had in there.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Try someone else.”

  “No,” he said, and suddenly his voice wasn’t so quiet any more, “how about I try you, motherfucker?” He whipped something out of his jacket pocket, and I heard the click-click of a butterfly knife swinging open. Butterfly knives are illegal in New York, but then so are drug deals and muggings. If there had been a cop around, I could have had this guy booked for all three.

  I held my palms up. “Don’t do this.”

  “Shut the fuck up and give me your wallet.” He gestured with the knife. It was a short blade, only four inches or so, but you can do plenty of damage with a short blade. Simon Corrina had always used a knife like this.

  I looked around, but there was no one in sight. The guy who’d made a buy just a minute ago had vanished, and I didn’t blame him.

  I reached into my pocket for my wallet, held it out to him. I thought about flipping it open and showing him my license, but I wasn’t sure whether that wo
uld get me my wallet back or a knife in the guts.

  He snatched it. “Come on, come on,” he said. “What else you got?”

  He reached under my jacket to pat down my pockets. He found my cell phone in its holster on my hip, popped it out, and slipped it into his own pocket. He slapped my right pants pocket. “What’s that?”

  “Just my keys,” I said. “You don’t want my keys, man. Come on.”

  “Show me.”

  I pulled out the keyholder, opened it for him. He gestured with the knife. “Okay.” I put it back. “Give me your watch.”

  “I don’t wear a watch,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “This can’t be all you’ve got.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It is.”

  We both heard a buzzing sound then. It started quiet and got louder. He looked down toward his pocket, and so did I, but only for a second. Before he could look back, I stepped in, braced his knife hand with one forearm, put my other hand around his throat and ran him back against the wall of the building next to us. He swung at me with his free hand, but it was a weak punch and I blocked it with my elbow. I hammered his head against the wall until his grip on the knife loosened and it fell to the sidewalk, and then a few more times just because it felt good. I brought my knee up, aiming for his crotch, but got his stomach instead. He folded up all the same. I let go of him and he collapsed on the pavement. I kicked the knife out of his reach and then squatted next to him to go through his pockets. I found my wallet and phone in one and some loose bills and a baggie full of plastic vials in the other. The phone had stopped buzzing. I took it all, rolled him into the doorway of the butcher shop, and left him there.

  I shoved the baggie deep into the garbage can on the corner. The butterfly knife was lying in the gutter, so I picked it up, folded it shut, and pocketed it. Now I was the one breaking the law, but what the hell. It probably wouldn’t be the last time tonight. I checked the readout of my phone, but all it said was “Missed Call — Unavailable.” Well, there was nothing I could do. If it was important, whoever it had been would call back.

  I crossed to the next block and checked building numbers till I found 51. It was a grey stone building with a fire escape zigzagging down the front. The windows were all dark, and on the ground floor some were boarded up. I didn’t see any intercom buttons next to the front door, which said something about how old this building was — it must have been from the throw-the-key-down era. I looked up at the top-floor apartment. Was Jocelyn in there? If she were, I thought, the lights would be on — she wouldn’t be asleep at five o’clock, and she wouldn’t be sitting in the dark, either. Or would she? She might if she knew I was coming. But how could she know? Tracy wouldn’t have called her — would she?