Hurt Machine (29 page)

Marco didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up, and went into what I supposed was his bedroom. He came out holding a nine-by-twelve envelope and handed it to me.

“I can prove it and so can a hundred other witnesses. He was at both shows that night. It was a very special night, the anniversary of the first time we were together. It was also the night I premiered my Lady Gaga routine. Look for yourself.”

Sure enough, there was Marco on stage as Lady Gaga. And at one of the front tables in the time-and-date-stamped shots was Jorge Delgado’s smiling face. I put them back in the envelope and made to hand the envelope to Marco.

“No. Keep them. It will help. I want those whispers to be done with. Brian tells me you’ll know how to make that happen.”

I stood up. “I’ll try.”

He walked me to the door and thanked me for making this last gift to his lover a possibility.

“Can I ask you one thing, Marco?”

“Sure.”

“Why Delgado? It couldn’t have been easy.”

“We love who we love,” he said. “We love who we love.”

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my belly, not because of the cancer and not because of what had transpired between Marco and Delgado. On the contrary, I agreed with Marco’s view: we love who we love. The older I got, the less all the old rules mattered to me about the rights and wrongs of love and relationships. I thought about how destructive Carmella’s attitude was and who it really hurt in the end. What did any of those stupid
shoulds
and
shouldn’ts
accomplish except to ruin lives and crush hope? It was just that I was uneasy, that somehow I knew what Marco had given me as a gesture of love and absolution would be perverted into a weapon and that I would be the one to wield it.

When I got downstairs I realized I was only a block or two away from the High Line Bistro, a restaurant, frankly, I wish I had never heard of.

FORTY-THREE

In all things, success breeds complacency. It is dangerous and unavoidable. This was equally true for blackmailers and baseball players and bartenders. When you’re so sure things will go smoothly in the future because they have in the past, you’re bound to get bitten in the ass. Complacency, that’s what I was counting on as I drove Natasha around the Upper West Side in my rented Suburban, killing time until I had to drop her off.

She had been true to her word, cooperating fully without a word of complaint. As I instructed her to do, she had gotten in touch with her blackmailer as she always had, sending him an innocuous email:
Package ready. Just need an address.
Then, within twenty-four hours, she received a call giving her instructions. No, she didn’t recognize the voice. She never could because he used one of those voice distortion boxes.

“The first two times,” she said, “he had me mail the cash to different PO boxes. After that, he had me drop it in garbage cans or leave it on a bench.”

“How much?”

“The first payments were for three thousand dollars each. Now they’re a thousand bucks each time.”

Clearly, the blackmailer—who I couldn’t help but see as Tino Escobar—wasn’t as trusting of the mail as his late partner. That and he was impatient for his money. That was good, a nice compliment to his complacency. His focus would be on the money.

“How much are you into him for?”

“Eleven thousand.”

I didn’t press her about it, nor did I ask her about how she felt when she heard Tillman was dead or when she found out that his death seemed to be beside the point. I didn’t ask her why she hadn’t gone to the cops immediately. I didn’t ask her where she was getting the money to pay. I didn’t ask her a lot of the questions it had occurred to me to ask. What did any of it matter now?

“I was tested,” Natasha whispered.

She could see the puzzlement in my eyes.

Tears were rolling down her freckled cheeks. “For HIV. I’m okay. I had the test the porn stars use when they get checked, the one that tells you right away. And I’ve had follow-ups.”

Neither of us commented on the irony in that. I’d been so focused on the nuts and bolts of the case, I hadn’t even thought about it. What an awful burden, I thought, as if the rape and blackmail wasn’t enough. As bad as I wanted to get this guy before, I wanted him much more now.

“Okay,” I said, handing the brown paper lunch bag to Natasha. “Just do what you always do. It’s okay to be nervous. He expects you to be, so if he’s watching you, he won’t see anything unusual. Make the drop like he told you and I’ll handle it from there. Just get off the train and wait upstairs.”

“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “The bag is awfully bulky.”

“I did that on purpose. It’s in small bills because I don’t want him to feel comfortable enough to take the money out of the bag and put it in his pockets. It’s easier to spot that way. Now go ahead, you should have plenty of time to walk from here to the 79th Street station.”

I didn’t follow Natasha. I knew where she was going and when she had to get there. Besides, Pam was already in position. I hadn’t told Natasha about Pam because no matter how much an amateur wants to cooperate, too much information makes them act in dumb and unnatural ways. The only thing I wanted Natasha to focus on for the moment was making the drop. When Natasha reached the corner, I put the Suburban in gear and drove over to the station.

The instructions were simple and it wasn’t hard to figure out the mechanics of how things would work. Natasha was to walk onto the downtown platform for the number 1 train and find the southernmost trash can on the platform. She was to wait until she saw the first number 1 train after two
A.M.
pull into the station, then she was to drop the lunch bag into the trash, and get onto the first car of the train. That was it. All very easy, quick, and clean. The blackmailer would either be on the platform or the train itself. The latter was the more likely because he wouldn’t risk being spotted before the train arrived. When Natasha got on the first car, he would get off the second or third car. He’d wait until the train pulled out of the station, walk over to the garbage, collect his money, and leave. There was a chance he might wait for the next train, but that seemed unnecessarily foolish and risky. He’d be a sitting duck. No, he would grab the sack and head right up to the street, grab a cab, or get to a car he’d parked close by earlier in the day.

I pulled over by a fire hydrant and kept the SUV running. I texted Pam my exact location. All things being equal, it would’ve been better if I could have been the one in the subway. Pam was a New Englander and though she had worked cases in New York City before and had spent a lot of time here since we began seeing each other, she didn’t know the lay of the land like a native. But all things weren’t equal. Natasha would have seemed way too comfortable with me close by. And the fact was, I’d been working the case for a while and many of the players, especially Escobar, knew me, knew my face. I’d also gotten a lot of press during the search for Sashi Bluntstone. I couldn’t risk blowing it all. Anyway, I’d given Pam a full description of Escobar. She was a total pro and could handle herself. I’d witnessed that myself.

I checked my watch: 2:03. As I did, Pam texted:
On second car. Wrong choice. No Escobar. No men.
I texted back that he was probably on the third or fourth car and not to worry. I was no fan of technology, but you had to love the fact that between cell phones, laptops, iPads, Kindles, digital video cameras, et cetera, it was impossible to tell if someone was just listening to music or doing surveillance. Even if Pam was the only person texting in that subway car, no one would give her a second thought.

Next text:
Pulling into 86th St.

Next text:
Man on. Not Escobar. Young. Black. Black hoodie, jeans, Nikes. Walking 2 back of train.

Next text:
Pulling out. On way 2 79th. No men on car.

Next text:
Slowing for 79th.

Next text:
Stopped. Doors open. Out. No men! Young woman at can. Got it. Coming up.

A woman! Maybe Escobar was smarter than I’d given him credit for. It was wise of him to insulate himself, to give himself some deniability. And here I was thinking that using the 79th Street station had been a mistake. It had very limited street access and no access between north and southbound platforms. There were only two choices for escape: up the stairs to the street or to risk life and limb by crossing the tracks to the northbound platform.

In the brief instant that I did a double-take at Pam’s last text, I missed the woman coming out of the subway. When I gazed back up and into my rearview mirror, all I caught was a glimpse of long black hair, a bare leg, the bulging paper bag in tapered fingers, and a cab door slamming shut. What an idiot I’d been. I was the complacent one. I’d been so sure it would be Escobar making the pickup himself, so sure he would grab a cab on the avenue, that I had left myself in exactly the wrong position. Pam opened the Suburban’s passenger door and jumped in.

“I almost missed her completely,” I screamed. “She got in a cab.”

Pam didn’t need to be told twice; I was already moving before she closed the door and belted in.

“What about Natasha?” Pam asked.

“Call her and tell her that we’re following the money. Don’t mention anything else. Tell her to take a cab home and that we’ll be in touch.”

But as Pam made the call, I knew our cause was lost. The Suburban was facing south down Broadway and the cab had headed west along 79th. At that time of the morning, much of the traffic in the city was yellow cabs and spotting one from the other was like sorting through a penny jar. I raced down Broadway and cut west as soon as I could, but it was no good, no good at all. Even if I could have isolated each of the thirty cabs I’d seen on the way and the ones I was looking at now, I would have no way to pick which one I wanted to follow unless I could see the backseat passenger. Talk about fucked.

“We’ll just wait for the next payoff demand,” Pam said, trying to console me. “Now that we know he has a woman helping him, we can be alert for that. We can bring in help next time.”

“There’s no time for a next time.”

“Of course there is. Blackmailers don’t stop. Sooner or later, they want another taste. Natasha will understand. After Sarah’s wedding we’ll—”

“Pam, it’s not Natasha I’m worried about. It’s
me
that doesn’t have time for a next time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I barely heard the question because my mind was processing something. I closed my eyes and thought back to the glimpse I’d seen of the woman getting into the cab. There was something familiar about her, the color of her hair, the shape of her calf. It’s amazing how little we need to see of someone to recognize them. I knew her, but from where? Then, all at once, it came to me, and it made a sickening kind of sense. I pulled to the curb and slammed my hand hard against the steering wheel.

“What are you doing—and what was that crack about having no time?”

“I know her,” I said.

Pam was confused. “Know who?”

“It’s not Escobar. It never was.”

“Who’s not Escobar?”

“The girl in the cab.”

“Who is she?”

“Wrong question. It’s not who she is. It’s who she used to be. Call Natasha and tell her we’re coming over.”

FORTY-FOUR

When I described her, Natasha said she knew who I was talking about. She said she worked as a bartender at Kid Charlemagne’s, but didn’t know what happened to her.

“She’s a very beautiful girl.”

I agreed.

“Do you remember her name?”

“It was an interesting name, foreign sounding,” she said.

“Was she at Piccadilly the night … you know?”

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment. “I think so, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember a lot of it. Why?”

I didn’t have to answer the question for her. I saw the answer in her eyes.

…

It had been easy enough to get her address from Nathan Martyr and to confirm it with Chef Liu. It was no shock that the address matched Tillman’s. Of course they had lived together. Now it was only a matter of waiting outside her apartment, the top floor of an unremarkable house in the Long Island City section of Queens.

“If she was extorting more than two women, she could do better than this,” Pam said, staring up at the house for a second before returning her gaze to the passenger’s sideview mirror.

“Tuition.”

“What?”

“Tuition costs a fortune at SVA,” I said. “And she’s put her film education to good use.”

“Funny fella. I don’t think Maya Watson would have seen it that way.”

“None of them would.”

Pam tensed. “Here she comes. My side of the street, half a block down. You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Are
you
sure?”

“It’s not me you should be worried about,” she said. “Are you sure
he’s
going to go for it?”

“If he is who I think he is, yes. If not, we’re all fucked.”

On that cheery note, I got out of the SUV. Hiding behind the side of the Suburban, I dialed the number DiNardo had given me from Maya’s cell phone, the same number Natasha had given me: her blackmailer’s number. I heard the muffled ringing of a phone just as she passed me. I stepped out from around the Suburban, phone in hand.