Dead Red (27 page)

“I have no idea. Like I said, Ricky was doing minor accident investigations for me.” Jack gave me a subtle look, telling me to keep my mouth shut about the work he was doing for Charles Golden. “Nothing that would lead to him getting killed or”—he looked over at the house—“this.”

Royce stayed quiet for about ten seconds. “Mr. Donne?”

“I wouldn’t know, Detective. The other night was the first time I’d seen Ricky in months.”

The look on Royce’s face told me we’d said pretty much what he had expected. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pair of business cards, and handed one to both Jack and me. “You guys know the drill. If you think of anything.…”

Jack took the card and handed Royce one of his own. And then, just to prove he hadn’t lost all his asshole qualities, said, “You do the same, Detective.”

I already had at least one of Royce’s cards at home, but took this one and slipped it into my back pocket anyway. “Thanks.”

Royce looked at Jack’s card and smirked. “You two planning on waiting around for the brother to show up?”

“I told him I would.”

“Might save some time if you give him a call and tell him to meet his mother at the precinct. There’s not much reason for him to meet me here. He hasn’t lived here for … how long?”

“Pretty much since he started college over four years ago.”

“Right.” Royce reached into his pocket and took out his car keys. “Always a pleasure to visit with
ex-
cops.”

He started off to his car, when I realized I had one more question for him.

“Royce.” He turned. “They match the bullets in my bedroom wall to the one that killed Ricky?”

“Ballistics should have the results this afternoon, Mr. Donne. Your uncle left specific instructions he be notified before anyone else.” Royce did a nice job of mixing sarcasm with annoyance. “I’m sure you’ll hear from him shortly after.”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t respond and half-a-minute later drove off.

“I think we should’ve told him about the Golden case, Jack,” I said.

“There’s another difference between you and me. Information is a valuable commodity. I’m not giving more than I have to unless I’m getting something in return.”

“You’re starting to sound like Charles Golden.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it any way you want.… I’m hungry. There’s a diner on the corner.” I raised my cup. “You wanna grab something?”

“Yeah. Whatta we got? An hour before Robby gets to the city?”

“About.” My phone rang. It was a 718 number, but I didn’t recognize it. “Hello?”

“Teacherman,” Tio said. “You up bright and early for a man on vacay.”

“Good morning to you, too.” I stepped away from Jack. It’s not that I didn’t want him to hear me talk with Tio—well, maybe it was. Tio was
my
connection and, as Jack said before, information was a commodity. I’d figure out the value of what Tio had, then decide how to—or if I should—share it. “What’s the word?”

“Ah, right to the point. I like that about you.” He paused for a bit, and I could hear him sipping from a drink. “The word is I got a name to go with the picture of that pretty little
chica
you showed me.”

“That was quick.”

“That’s how I do business, Teacherman. Pizza and whatever, you know? No use making people wait if I can help it.”

“I appreciate it,” I said, not pushing him on the
business
comment. “What’s the name?”

“Sheila E,” he said. “Like that drummer chick—used to play with that skinny dude, Prince, from the eighties.”

“What does a young guy like you know about the eighties?”

“My mom and dad used to play that shit all the time. Before they split up.”

I learned last year that Tio’s parents separated when he was young and that his mom had died from AIDS years ago. Life’s like that sometimes.

“Cool,” I said. “Any idea what the E stands for?”

“Not even sure it’s her real name.” I took a sip of my coffee as he paused again. “You wouldn’t be interested in an address, would ya?”

I almost spit my coffee all over the sidewalk. “You got her address?”

“I got
an
address, Teacherman. Not sure whose it is, but one of my boys said he’s seen her around.”

“Around the address?”

“And hangin’ with the people who live there.” He gave me the address, which I entered into my phone. “Thing is…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s kinda known as a … party house, y’know?”

“What’s a party house?”

He laughed. “How do I put this so I don’t offend your public schoolteacher sensibilities?” he said. “It’s a place where you can go to … party. In private. You pay to get in and you can drink, you can dance, you can … for a little extra dough-re-mi … hook up with a young lady—or young man—of your pleasing.”

“It sounds like you’re describing a whorehouse.”

“Except we don’t say it like that, though, ’cause then it makes the girls who hang there sound like hos.”

I looked over at Jack, who was obviously getting impatient with me. I put the phone down at my side. “Just get me a double-egg and cheese on a roll. I’m good with the coffee.” Jack rolled his eyes and gave me a subservient bow, but he went. “Tio,” I said, “having sex for money is prostitution no matter what you call the people who are engaging in it.”

“There you go, sounding like a cop
and
a teacher. I didn’t call you up to play word games, Teacherman. I called to give you some info you asked for.”

He was right. “What do I owe you for this, Tio?”

“Hate that word ‘owe.’ Whyn’t you take the info, see what it gets you, and then we’ll talk ’bout what it’s worth after. Sound fair?”

“More than fair. Thanks, Tio.”

“Later.”

I put my phone away and thought about what to do next. I had to share this info with Jack, and then we had to check out the address Tio had given me. First, I decided to call Robby and tell him to meet his mother at the precinct. I left a message explaining that there was nothing more to be done at his mom’s and to call me when he got to the city.

Jack came back from the diner and threw a brown paper bag at me. He was already chewing on his sandwich. “Hope you like mustard and mayo.”

“Perfect.” I told him about my call from Tio and showed him the address.

Jack took a sip of coffee and looked at my notepad. “Good shit, Ray. Who’s this guy who called you?”

“I’d rather not say, Jack. He likes to keep things on the down low.”

Jack gave that about three seconds. “Whatever.” He took another bite of his breakfast. “So, we are not sticking around here waiting for Robby?”

“I already called him. We’ll talk when he gets to the city.”

Jack tapped the address on my notepad. “Let’s go for a ride, Mr. Donne.”

*   *   *

It took us about ten minutes to get to the address Tio had provided. Jack drove past the place slowly. It was a four-story brownstone that had seen better days, but still seemed to be the best-looking house on the not-yet-gentrified block. We parked down the street.

“Okay,” Jack said, “time for a plan. I’m thinking I knock on the door and act like I’m looking for a good time. Mention this Sheila E chick by name; say she comes highly recommended by a friend of mine who’s been here before.”

“What if they ask for a name?”

“I’ll tell him it was Ricky T.” Before I could say anything, he said, “It’s the truth, ain’t it? He didn’t exactly give us the name, but he had her picture. Chances are good they know him inside.”

I didn’t like it, but Jack was probably right. There were a few other things I didn’t like. The time of day for one.

“It’s kinda early to be looking for … ‘a good time,’ don’t you think?” I said.

“I’m a businessman. Heading back home and looking for a quickie before I return home to the wife and rugrats.”

It didn’t take him long to come up with that. Jack Knight, Method Actor. I couldn’t help but be impressed.

“What if they make you?”

“For a cop?”

“You
did
work around here, Jack. The nine-oh’s only a mile away, and you weren’t exactly known for keeping a low profile.”

He put his hands on the steering wheel and closed his eyes as he thought. I looked out the window and watched a girl, who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, walk down the block pushing a stroller. The kid was wailing away, but luckily Mom had her earbuds in. Teenage Parenting 101.

“Okay,” Jack said, tapping the steering wheel. “Same plan, different approach.
You’re
looking for a pre-noon quickie.” He faced me. “Think you can sell it?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying my best to exude confidence. “What if they don’t want to let me in?”

“You beg a little, Ray. I’m sure you’ve done that before, when you were jonesing for a piece of ass.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and handed it to me. “A little pleading, a little flash of the cash, you’re in like a slippery dick.” He thought about that and laughed. “Literally.”

I looked at the money he’d given me: three hundred-dollar bills. About what my suit cost yesterday. I put the cash in my pocket and pulled out my cell to check the battery. Good to go.

“If I’m not out in ten minutes…”

“I’ll come charging up those steps like Dirty Fucking Harry,” Jack said. He raised his pant leg and showed me his gun. “You want my piece?”

“No, Jack,” I said, putting my hand on the door. “I don’t want your piece. Just keep your cell phone out. I’m probably gonna be right back anyway.”

“Think positive, Ray. That’s what got me where I am today.”

If that was supposed to inspire me, it missed by a whole lot.

“See ya in a few.”

I exited the car and started walking casually up the block to the house. There were very few people on the streets at this hour. I guess those with jobs had already gone, and it was still too early for those who didn’t. The parked cars I passed on my way were a good indication of what was happening to this neighborhood. Some were old and battered, the kind you wouldn’t cry over if something happened to them; and others were what car dealers would probably call “gently pre-owned” upper mid-range cars: older-model BMWs, two Volvos, and a Saab. The kind of cars that said, “I can do better than this, but I’m still going through my hip stage and just love the diversity of living in Brooklyn.”

I stopped in front of the brownstone. Before climbing the steps, I noticed all the windows seemed to be pretty new, and the front door was clearly the envy of its neighbors. I walked straight up to the buzzers. According to the slots, there were eight apartments inside, two per floor. One thing the slots didn’t tell me was the names of any of the tenants. Some people like their privacy; others need it. I pressed the one that was labeled “Super” and stood back to wait for a response.

About thirty seconds later, a man’s voice came through the intercom. “Who is it?” he asked, coming through loud and clear. Obviously a new intercom system.

I leaned into the speaker. “Chad Curtis,” I said, picking the first former Yankee who popped into my head.

“What do you want?”

I couldn’t exactly announce what I wanted, so I said, “I was hoping to speak with the … manager of the building.”

“Ain’t no manager,” the voice said. “You’re talking to the super; and if you’re looking for an apartment, we don’t got any openings.”

“I’m not looking for an apartment.” I got real close to the speaker and lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “I’m looking for Sheila.”

I waited about ten seconds. “There’s nobody by that name lives here, mister. You got the wrong address.”

“I was here a while go,” I blurted out. “With my friend Ricky?”

Again I waited. “So?”

“I was hoping to see Sheila again. Sheila E.”

This time it took a full half minute before I got a response. The front door buzzed, and I pushed it open. I stepped into a foyer that contained a coatrack, a full-length mirror, an old radiator, and some decent carpeting. There was a staircase to my left and a door to my right. The door opened and a Caucasian woman stepped out. She was wearing a long-sleeved work shirt and khaki shorts. Her brown hair was pulled back, and her skin color made me think she’d been enjoying the sun.

“Mr. Curtis?” she asked.

“Chad,” I said.

“Chad.” She stepped toward me. I could smell the perfume she was wearing. It was not the kind you’d put on if you were planning on spending the day inside, alone. “I’m not sure we’ve met.” She gave me her hand—not her name—and I took it. “You say you were here with a friend how long ago?”

“A little over a month, I guess. With Ricky T.”

She repeated the name. “And you met Sheila?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “It’s a bit early in the day to be coming by, Mr. Curtis.”

“I know and I apologize,” I said. “It’s just that I’m heading home and—”

“You’d like a little refreshment before you get on the road?”

I put an embarrassed look on my face and smiled as if to say she understood me. “Something like that.”

She smiled back. “Where did you park?”

“I found a space up the block.” I pointed in the direction opposite of Jack. “Not too close, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” she said, sharing in the conspiracy of secrecy. “You have money?”

Right to business now. I reached into my front pocket and pulled out the three hundred dollars. I tried to make it look casual, like I’d done this before. She looked at the money and smiled, but let me hang on to it.

“Why don’t you follow me upstairs, Mr. Curtis,” she said. “And we’ll see what we can do for you.”

“Call me Chad, please. Is, uh, Sheila available?”

She took me by the hand and started to lead me up the stairs. “We’ll have to see, Chad. If not, we’ll find you another suitable girl.”

I stopped on the fourth step. “I really came to see Sheila, Miss…?”

“Chad,” she said, as if talking to a teenager. “You come by without an invitation, outside our regular hours, requesting a particular girl.” She squeezed my hand and rubbed my wrist with her index finger. If she were trying to get my juices flowing, she knew her stuff. “We’ll see what we can do to make sure you head home happy. If that does not work for you, you’re welcome to come back some other time.”