Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel)

by Angela Burt-Murray

  “Who is it?” yelled the woman, who was likely straining to see through the battered peephole in the middle of her door.

  “Hello, ma’am. My name is Terrence Graham. I’m with the Manhattan district attorney’s office. I’m here to ask you some questions about your son, Carlo.”

  The woman didn’t respond, although we could hear her breathing, so we knew she was still standing there.

  “Ma’am, can we talk to you for a minute?” Terrence repeated. “It’s about your son.”

  Suddenly one of the apartment doors in the middle of the hallway opened. Terrence and I turned around to see a heavyset Latino man with a jagged knife scar down the side of his left cheek and a colorful sleeve of violent-looking tattoos snaking up one of his arms step into the hallway and look in our direction. I felt Terrence’s body tense up beside me, and the man stared us down for what seemed like forever. Then, just as quickly as he appeared, the man slipped on a black leather jacket over his wifebeater and then headed quickly down the stairs. I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath. Terrence turned back to the door and knocked again.

  “Ma’am, can we come in just for a moment?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to no cops!” she yelled through the door in a ragged voice I assumed was destroyed by years of smoking. Terrence lowered his tone, recognizing her concern was that she didn’t want her neighbors to think she was talking to the police about anything.

  “Ma’am, please, I’m not a cop. I’m with the DA’s office, and I just want to talk to you for a few minutes about your son.”

  We heard the sound of three locks being undone and then a chain being removed. The door opened to reveal a short, chunky Hispanic woman with gray hair twisted in a severe bun at the nape of her heavily lined neck. Her eyes were dark black pools of anger, and folds of skin hung down underneath her eyes. Her lips were pulled tight in a thin pink line over her coffee- and cigarette-stained teeth. She had on a pink terry cloth housecoat over a thick cotton nightgown. Reading glasses hung on a silver chain around her neck. Her heavy, veiny legs led to feet stuffed into run-down fluffy gray slippers.

  “What do you want?” she snapped with a deep heavily accented voice.

  “Ma’am, I’m Terrence Graham from the district attorney’s office, and my partner, Nia, and I would like to ask you a few questions about your son if you don’t mind.”

  She opened the door a bit wider to let us into her apartment. Terrence handed Mrs. Esposito his card, and then we followed her down the narrow hallway, which was lined on both sides with piles of newspapers, magazines, clothes, and plastic containers. To say this lady was a candidate-in-the-making for the TV show Hoarders was an understatement. The parrot resumed its squawking when we came around the corner.

  “Aaaaawk! Aaaawk! Cop! Cop!” the large green-and-yellow bird screeched from its perch in a rusted cage in the corner of the cluttered room by the window.

  The only signs of family in the cluttered apartment were two large framed pictures hanging alongside each other on one of the dingy cinder-block walls. The first was a framed school picture of a boy who looked to be around eight years old smiling brightly and wearing a navy-blue private school sweater with an emblem on the breast and a white shirt. The second was a black-and-white wedding photo. The bride, who looked like a much younger and prettier version of Mrs. Esposito in a long white taffeta dress, was standing next to a tall, handsome groom in a black tuxedo.

  The main room of the apartment looked like the entire contents of the home had been dumped there. Mountains of books, clothes, cans of food, plastic grocery bags, shoes, and more newspapers and magazines lay all around the room. The dusty coffee table was laden with a collection of at least forty tall Santería candles. The sofa was hidden by four overflowing laundry baskets full of clothes and children’s old toys, as if someone had started on the Herculean task of trying to organize Mount Trashmore but had given up. A thirty-six-inch flat-screen TV hung over the sagging, dingy couch.

  Luckily, there was no place to sit. Unsure if my latest tetanus shot was up to date, I was more than happy to stand.

  “Aaaaawk! Aaaawk! Cop! Cop!” the bird screeched again.

  Mrs. Esposito dropped down in the patched brown corduroy Barcalounger and pulled the black lever wrapped in duct tape to raise the cushion for her legs. I swore I saw a ball of dust come up out of the chair as if she were the Charlie Brown character Pig-Pen. She took a cigarette out of the pocket of her frayed housecoat and then reached down to dig around in her bra for some matches.

  “See, even the stupid bird thinks you’re a cop,” she said, taking a deep drag on the cigarette and looking me up and down as she blew smoke in my direction. I tried not to shift nervously under her hardened gaze. “You got five minutes. Whatchu want to know about my son, Carlo?”

  “Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your son before he was murdered last month?” Terrence asked.

  “I haven’t seen my son in nearly a year,” she said, her eyes looking at the silent images moving across the screen of the large, old wooden floor-model TV in front of her chair. I wondered why she was watching that instead of the flat screen mounted on the wall, but I didn’t ask, thinking that Mrs. Esposito barely wanted to talk to Terrence, let alone his “partner.”

  “Why is that, Mrs. Esposito?” Terrence asked.

  “Because I told him I never wanted to see him again,” she said feistily as she took another deep drag of the cigarette and then tapped it on the edge of the overflowing glass ashtray on the metal TV tray next to her chair.

  “And why is that?”

  “’Cause ’bout two years ago he start runnin’ wit that gang. I said, ‘Carlo, me and Papi didn’t raise you to be no thug.’ But he don’ listen. He disgrace his father’s memory. God rest his soul.” She looked over at the wedding picture posted on the wall and made the sign of the cross.

  “My husband, Hector, he was a good man. He work hard for thirty-seven years for the New York City Transit Authority as a bus driver before he died five years ago. He worked his fingers to the bone to provide for me and Carlo. But Carlo don’t wanna work real job. He want fast money, flashy cars, putas!”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Esposito, where did you get the flat-screen TV?” I asked, finally working up the courage to speak up and follow a hunch.

  “Who you, welfare worker? What you care where I get my TV?” she sneered.

  “Well, I was just wondering as that’s a really nice expensive TV, yet you’re choosing to watch your telenovela Diario de Mi Familia on this older TV,” I said, gesturing to the model resting on the worn carpet.

  “Ah, whatchu you know about Mi Familia?” she said, lying back in her chair and looking at me skeptically.

  “Muy poco,” I said, holding up my index finger and thumb and smiling at her to try to break the ice. “I know sweet little Rosario better watch her back and her man Ricardo with that blond hussy Carmacita.” For once I was thankful to have taken in some of MJ’s ramblings while he was talking to his boy toy du jour, Ricardo, who had just landed a small part on Mi Familia.

  “I know, Mami! Right, I knew that Carmacita was no good!” she said, beginning to get animated. We exchanged a few more thoughts on the popular Spanish-language drama, and then I came back around to the TV.

  “But why don’t you watch the show on that beautiful flat screen, Señora? Then you can see all the drama in HD,” I said.

  “I’ll never watch that TV,” she said as her shoulders slumped and her eyes began to look far off.

  “Why, Mrs. Esposito?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  “Carlo. He bought that TV with his drug money,” she said, spitting out the words. “He mount it on the wall when he know I be out at Mass. I come home and he say, ‘Surprise, Mami! Look what I done for you.’ I tell him get out; I don’t want none of his drug money. That was the
last time I see him.”

  “Mrs. Esposito, did your son ever tell you who he was working for?” Terrence asked.

  “No,” she said, sniffing, and her voice went down to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t ask and he don’t say.”

  “Mrs. Esposito, have you ever heard of Diablo Negro?” Terrence pressed. At the mention of the notorious drug cartel, Mrs. Esposito’s shoulders tensed as the parrot began to squawk excitedly from its cage again.

  “Aaaaawk! Aaaawk! Diablo! Diablo!” The parrot hopped around the cage, repeating itself loudly.

  Mrs. Esposito lowered the footrest on her chair and then stood up.

  “Look what you’ve done now! I’ll never get that damn bird to shut up now. I think it’s time for you to go.” She began shooing us back down the cluttered hallway toward the door as the bird continued to screech.

  “Aaaaawk! Aaaawk! Diablo! Diablo!” As the bird screamed, Mrs. Esposito became more and more insistent that we leave despite Terrence’s pleas for just a couple more questions.

  “People will hear that loco bird all over the building,” she hissed. “You have to leave now.”

  “Mrs. Esposito, according to the images I reviewed from the crime scene, your son had a parrot in his apartment. Please, was there anything your son ever said to you about Diablo Negro?”

  “Are you crazy? You’re going to get me killed talking about those people,” she hissed as she opened her door, stuck her head out, and looked around. Once she felt the coast was clear for us to leave, she opened it wider and stood aside for us to depart.

  “Now get out and don’t ever come back! I don’t talk to no cops!” she yelled loudly into the hallway, putting on a show for her neighbors. As I walked by her to follow Terrence out of the apartment, she whispered something in my ear.

  “I find this at the bottom of the parrot’s cage,” Mrs. Esposito said as she furtively pressed something in my hand and then slammed the door behind us.

  I looked down in my hand and saw a small key with an orange MTA tag on it. I nudged Terrence who looked down at the key and then took it and slipped it into his pocket.

  As Terrence and I walked back down the hallway toward the stairs, I saw that the door for the apartment where the large tattooed man in the leather jacket had exited was slightly cracked. I could tell Terrence noticed it, too, because he suddenly took my arm at the elbow as if to hurry us along to the stairs. As we began to descend the stairs, we both heard a second door slam shut.

  We made it quickly down to the lobby and back out the front door of the building to the car. As we stood in front of the car doors, we looked up toward the eighth floor of the building. The man with the leather jacket was standing in the window, his massive arms folded across his broad chest, as he stared down at us, making sure that we left.

  Once we turned onto the West Side Highway heading back into Midtown Manhattan, Terrence took the key from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “What’s the tag say?” he asked. The short key, which looked like it was for some kind of old train station locker, had writing stamped into the plastic orange casing that covered the top of the key.

  “Uh, it looks like Port Authority, Section one-four-six, Box fifteen,” I said, squinting at the worn letters. “I think that’s what it says.”

  “That’s strange, because ever since 9/11, none of the New York City transportation stations have storage lockers for fear of terrorists planting bombs. So it can’t be for one of those lockers, because why would Carlo have this key stashed in the bottom of his parrot’s cage?”

  “I don’t know, but he must not have wanted anyone to find it,” I said, turning the key over in my hand to inspect it.

  “Well, he hid it in the place that no one looked because his apartment had been ransacked pretty thoroughly by whoever killed him.” Terrence thought some more and then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket for his phone, punched in a number, and put the call on speaker.

  “Yo, Peter. It’s Terrence. What’s up, man?” he said as he turned left onto Forty-Second Street and headed east.

  “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Mr. Big-Time District Attorney Terrence Graham.” A deep voice with a thick New York accent filled the car.

  “Aw, man. You know how I do. How’s your beautiful wife, Annemarie, doing?”

  “Pregnant. Again. Twins,” the voice said, snorting.

  “What? Pregnant again. How many is that for you guys? Like five?”

  “Six, brother. You know we’re good Irish Catholics, so . . .”

  “I’ll say. Saint Peter must be loving you guys. Congratulations, man. You still the Port Authority division?”

  “Hell, yeah. Why, what’s up?”

  “I’m curious. You guys got any lockers still in your station for citizens?”

  “Nah, you know Giuliani got rid of those things after 9/11. If you can’t carry all your stuff, you’re shit out of luck at the Port.”

  “What about lockers for bus drivers and other employees?”

  “Yeah, of course, the employees have their lockers, but even those are likely coming out soon.”

  “Pete, I’ve got a key that says Section one-four-six, Box fifteen. That one of your keys?”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. We heard typing on a keyboard in the background for a few seconds, and then he was back on the line. “Yeah, that’s one of ours. Uh, it looks like it’s in the older area of the terminal on the southwest corner. It’s the one the bus drivers use. Computer says it’s assigned to Hector Esposito.”

  “Thanks, Pete. Anything else?”

  “Wait a minute. Yeah uh-huh. Here it goes. It says Esposito’s retired, and the box hasn’t been reassigned.”

  “That’s perfect, Pete. Hey, when are you going to let me buy you a drink to celebrate those twins?”

  “My number hasn’t changed, and neither has my drink. You know where to find me, Mr. Big-Time DA.”

  “All right, I’ll catch you at McHenry’s next Thursday. First round’s on me.”

  “Second round’s on you, too,” he said. “Catch you next week, Chief. Hey, make sure you bring that supermodel fiancée that me and the guys see you with in all the papers. We need something beautiful to look at if your ugly mug is going to be there.”

  “Very funny, O’Doyle. See you next week.” Terrence ended the call and seemed put off by me hearing the end of the conversation.

  “Great, so we know that the key is for an actual locker,” I said, trying to sound cheerful and not reveal any of the ache that had suddenly gripped my stomach. Terrence pulled the car to a stop and parked in one of the emergency unloading zones in front of the Port Authority. Having police plates had its privileges.

  We headed into the cavernous Port Authority building. It was nearing rush hour, so the place was crawling with people in a hurry to catch a bus or train. As we moved deeper into the bowels of the station, the crowd thickened, and Terrence and I were separated as people weaved in between us. Terrence grabbed my hand and pulled me along. His large hand enveloped mine, and I held on tightly as he parted the crowd and followed a sign marked “Employee Lockers.” When he tried to push open the door, he found it was locked. Luckily, just that second a man came out. Before the door could swing shut again, Terrence stuck his foot in it. We were in.

  The old locker room must have been a relic from when the station was first built. It was dank and dark with a hard stone floor and exposed pipes running overhead. Fortunately, no one else was in there. We made our way over to the section marked 146 and began to scan the rows of metal lockers, looking for number 15.

  “Got it. Here it is,” Terrence said as he sat down on the end of a long wooden bench and faced a box marked number 15.

  I handed him the key. He slipped it in the lock and turned. The metal-vented door swung open on its hinge.

  “Let’s see w
hat Carlo’s been stashing in his old man’s locker that he didn’t want anyone to find at his apartment.” I peered over his shoulder into the locker. Terrence, not wanting to destroy any fingerprints, used a penlight to show the contents. There were four stacks of cash deep in the back, a couple of watches, some old family photos, a wallet, and two passports with different identities. Using a pen, Terrence flipped open the wallet to find a fake driver’s license with Carlo’s face and the name of Carlo Ramirez. When he tilted the wallet up for closer inspection, an airplane boarding pass slipped onto the ground. I took a tissue from the pocket of my blazer and used it to pick up the ticket.

  “Look,” I said, gasping as I read the destination on the boarding pass.

  It was for a flight to Phoenix.

  “Well, what do you suppose Carlo was doing in Phoenix?” Terrence asked.

  “I don’t know. But something tells me if we cross-reference the date on this boarding pass to the day of the murder of the Phoenix cheerleader, there’s going to be some overlap,” I said excitedly. I set my handbag down on the bench next to Marcus and then dug around to find my notebook. Flipping the pages, I located the key date. Kalinda was found shot in the head June 16; and the medical examiner said she died June 7.

  “That’s within forty-eight hours of our new friend, Carlo Ramirez, landing in Phoenix,” said Terrence.

  “So what’s a killer in the Diablo Negro cartel doing taking a trip to Phoenix?”

  “Looks like it’s a good thing we’re going to Phoenix, so we can figure that out,” Terrence said as he dropped the boarding pass back into the locker and shut the door and then put the key back in his pocket. Both of us were deep in thought as we made our way back through the even denser crowd to the front of the Port Authority. Terrence tried to take my hand again so that we could stay together, but I slipped just out of reach.

  Finally we reached the front entrance and stepped out into the cool evening air. I turned to Terrence, eager to get home to see if Eric and his hacker friends had dug up anything from the e-mails. Maybe they were tied to what we discovered today as well.