Innocent Monster (9 page)

“Relax,” I said. “I used to be on the job too.”

There were two ways he could go with that. Either he would give up the hard-ass stare and ask me about where I’d served and how long ago and who did I know that he knew, or he’d harden and get defensive. I hoped for the former, but was betting on the latter. I wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah, you and thousands of other guys,” he said. “If I got a stiffy every time an ex-cop stepped through that door, I wouldn’t need Viagra. Whatchu want?”

I learned a long time ago, before I ever got on the cops, that backing down to a guy like this was a big mistake. I met a hundred guys like this prick when I was on the job. Some people become cops because it’s in their blood. Some, like me, stumble into it. Then there are assholes that want the gun and badge, guys who want the power of the state to sanctify their bullying. Bullies are bullies, in uniform or out. Truth be told, I hated the bullies much more than the people I arrested.

“Take it down a notch on the heavy routine,” I said, staring back at him with unfriendly eyes. “I’m here to see Nathan Martyr, 6E.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Not unless he reads minds.”

“Name?”

“Moe Prager.”

“What should I tell him this is about?” the doorman asked, his tone a tad more mellow.

“Sashi Bluntstone.”

“The missing kid?”

“Yeah, her. I’m working for the parents.”

“I already talked to the Nassau cops,” he said. “He was here the day the kid disappeared. They got my statement.”

Okay, that took some air out of my balloon, but not all of it. I was just as interested in the crazies who visited Martyr’s website and blog as I was in Martyr himself.

“He’s got an alibi, good. Then, when I go up, Martyr and I can talk of Michelangelo,” I said. “You gonna ring him or what?”

The doorman pulled the phone off its wall cradle and punched in 6E.

“Yes, Mr. Martyr, there’s an ex-cop here to see you... Moe Prager... about the missing Bluntstone kid... yes, sir, I told him... very good, Mr. Martyr.” He replaced the phone. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Those his words?”

“No, Prager. His words were ‘Fuck him! Tell him to get the fuck out of here.’”

“Nice guy.”

“A real charmer,” the doorman confessed. “Personally, I think he’s the biggest dick I ever met, but he’s the boss in this, so it’s time for you to hit the road.”

“So you vouched for him for the day Sashi Bluntstone went missing?”

“I did. He went out for breakfast. Came back in here about ten thirty and didn’t leave for the rest of the day.”

“No offense, but how can you be so sure he didn’t slip past you or go out through another entrance?”

He waved me over to his desk and gestured for me to take a gander. There, hidden behind the wall of the desk, were eight video screens, one of which was currently featuring a shot of my thinning hair.

“Even if I’m away from my desk to drain the dragon, everything is kept on tape for review and it’s digital. The minute I get back, I review all the camera footage from the time I was away. Martyr was in his loft from the time he came back from breakfast to the time I got off shift.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the help.”

I turned and left. Oh, I was going to come back, but there was no need to piss anyone off or to get any more unwanted attention.

I sat outside the place in my car, hoping Martyr might leave the building to score some drugs. While I didn’t know what he looked like, I did know what drug-sick junkies looked like. I decided to take my chances with that. After about an hour and a half, I’d had enough. Truth be told, I was getting too old and impatient for this shit, though not nearly as impatient as my bladder. Sitting down the block from the Bluntstones for ten minutes was one thing. This was something else. I put the car in drive and set out for the nearest bar. Unlike almost every other kind of business establishment in the five boroughs of New York City, bars tended not to bust your balls for wanting to use their restrooms. More often than not, they figured you’d wind up buying a drink anyway.

Down the block from Grimaldi’s Pizza and in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, I found a bar. I was so happy, I nearly got religion. It didn’t last. Just as I parked the car and reached to open my door, there was a bang and my car lurched forward.

Fuck!

I got out of my car ready to take a swing at the idiot who’d just rear-ended me. Much easier to take a swing when you have a gun on you... just in case. I don’t know, I guess maybe I was a little more frustrated at not making immediate headway in finding Sashi. It had begun to sink in while I was parked outside Martyr’s building that I was further behind than I imagined, that three weeks in a missing child case was an eternity and that if I ever did catch up, it would be far too late. My fists were clenched when I turned around and saw her standing there.

“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I did any damage to your car,” she said, her voice raspy and on the deep side. She pronounced
car
and
god
like a New Englander.

She wasn’t beautiful, but not by much. Forty, give or take, she possessed that deadly combination of dark blue eyes and black hair. Forty! Christ, I remember when I thought forty was old. I remember when I thought it was ancient. Now
I
felt ancient and forty seemed as far past me as fifteen. Her hair was bob cut and had some gray filtering through it. She had a plush mouth, nice cheekbones, and was impeccably madeup, but not so you couldn’t see the lines at the corners of her lips and eyes. I liked that. She had lived a little and wasn’t trying to hide it. She wore a black leather coat, black stockings, and heels. The heels were high without being ridiculous. I found myself staring at her ringless left hand. I don’t know if she caught me staring.

“I’m so sorry. It doesn’t look like there’s any damage,” she repeated. “Come look.”

I did and she was right. There was no damage. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. If the car’s scratched, I’ll just throw it out and buy a new one.”

“You’re funny.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m new to the city and it’s been kind of hard getting adjusted. Now this... not my day, not my month.”

“Really, don’t worry about it...”

“Mary, Mary Lambert.”

“Moe Prager.” We shook hands. “No offense, Mary, but if I don’t get to a restroom soon...”

“Go on. I’ll wait for you in case you decide you want to exchange information.”

“Fine.”

When I came out of the bar, she was still there.

“It’s nice that you waited, but I think we’re okay.”

“Well, Moe, here’s my business card anyway.”

I put it in my wallet, but didn’t offer her one of mine.

“So, Mary Lambert, can I ask you what had you so preoccupied that you missed the fact that my car was sitting right there in front of you?”

She blushed. “I got lost and I was pulling to the curb to try and get my bearings. I had an appointment on Court Street and when I left I got all turned around.” She looked at her watch. “And I have to get back to my sublet in Greenpoint in about a half hour.”

“You’re okay. You’ve got plenty of time and you’re not that lost. I’ll show you the way, but if you’re going to do a lot of driving in this town, invest in a GPS. Manhattan is easy to get around in because it’s laid out on a grid, but the other boroughs, not so much. You could ride around forever and never find your way to or from your destination.”

“I know, but I’m just a stubborn Bostonian. We figure if you can navigate those streets, you can find your way around anywhere.”

“Boston, huh?”

“Oh, Christ, don’t tell me you’re a Yankees fan.”

“Mets fan,” I said. “We’re united in our loathing of the Yanks.”

“There was ‘86, but I’ll overlook that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“So what kind of appointment did you have on Court Street? I used to have an office at 40 Court.”

“You’re joshing me! That’s where I had my appointment,” she said. “I’m an IT consultant to law firms. My company moved me here for a few months because we’ve landed several contracts with big firms throughout the area. Don’t tell me you’re a lawyer.”

“God, no. I’m a retired cop and I was a partner in a security and investigations firm—40 Court is where we had our offices.”

“A PI?”

“That was years ago, Mary, and it’s a lot less exciting than you’d think.”

She looked at her watch again and frowned. “Moe, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to my place and do a conference call with the home office.”

Shit! “
That’s okay. I’ll get you back onto the BQE.”

When I approached her to point the way, I noticed that she smelled as fine as she looked. Her perfume was grassy with grace notes of musk and honey. I pointed out how she should turn around, go left under the Brooklyn Bridge, and follow the signs to the BQE East. “Get off at McGuinness-Humboldt and you should be okay from there.”

“Thank you, Moe Prager. You’re a gentleman.”

I held my hand out to her. She took it, but held on to it a little longer than I would have expected. “Listen, Moe, I still feel like an idiot for hitting your car. Let me take you to dinner. My treat. I could use a friend in this city. Us New Englanders, we like to think of ourselves as a hardy bunch, but this city will test you.”

“How could I say no to that offer? And we can all use another friend.”

She smiled and it lit up the afternoon. “Tonight?”

“I can’t,” I said, “not tonight.”

“Then call me. You’ve got my numbers.”

“I will. I promise.”

With that, Mary Lambert let go of my hand and got back into her car. I watched it disappear under the Brooklyn Bridge and I suddenly felt very lonely. I wasn’t a monk by any stretch. I’d dated a lot since Carmella and I split, but the walls I’d built around myself were thick. Closeness was no longer part of the equation for me, which meant my relationships with women had a very limited shelf life. I only felt the loneliness when I met someone like Mary, someone with whom I felt immediately comfortable. It reminded me of what I no longer had and would probably never have again.

Jimmy Palumbo was happy for the extra work, even if this wasn’t exactly what either of us had in mind when we spoke at the museum. I met him in front of the same bar where I’d met Mary Lambert. It was easy enough to find and convenient to where we were going. The ex-jock came into the bar as quietly as possible, but it’s kind of difficult to fly under the radar when you’re six foot six, 270 pounds. People are just going to notice you. I was familiar with the phenomenon from walking the streets with my old running buddy, Preacher “the Creature” Simmons. Preacher was a former New York All-City basketball player who got caught up in a college gambling scheme and wound up throwing away his basketball career. He landed on his feet, running the security detail for several large housing projects in Queens. Believe me, when he walked in a room, everyone stared. Preacher was now retired and spending his time playing golf in Myrtle Beach.

Jimmy and I sat down at the end of the bar. I halfheartedly sipped a beer while he went with Diet Coke.

“Alcohol and me...” His voice drifted off. “My impulse control is for shit when I’ve had a few. My wife used that against me in court to take the kids.”

“Fine. So you understand what I’ve got in mind?”

“I got it.”

“If you’re having second thoughts, now’s the time to tell me.”

“No, I’m cool. Let’s get to it.”

We took my car over to the converted factory building and frankly, I wasn’t encouraged at our prospects for success. My plan, such as it was, involved lighting a diversionary fire in the Dumpster at the rear of Nathan Martyr’s building and getting the doorman—whoever was on duty—to vacate his post while Jimmy and I dashed up to the sixth floor. There was only one way it could’ve worked and ten ways it could’ve gone wrong, a few of them involving felony charges. This kind of stuff wasn’t one of my strengths. Carmella, now she could always come up with a way to get a guy out in the open and it was almost always a simple plan. It was never simple for me.

Then, just as we turned onto Martyr’s block, I caught sight of him coming out the maw of the old building. Planning might not have been one of my strong points, but at least I’d had the good sense to have found pictures of him on the internet so I wouldn’t get the wrong man. My original scheme was flimsy enough without us strong-arming the wrong person. But seeing him there under the streetlight only confirmed my initial thoughts about the guy. He was drug sick. He was skinny to the point of hollow, sweating so that his face fairly shined, and walking like he had chains around his ankles. He kept wiping his nose with the back of his coat sleeve and bending over in pain. It didn’t take a rocket scientist or even an ex-cop to figure out where he was headed.

“That’s our boy,” I said.

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“No, Jimmy, that’s him. The stork couldn’t have done a better job of delivering him. Now all I’ve gotta figure out is whether it’s better to take him before or after.”

“Before or after what?”

“He makes his connection. He’s going to score drugs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Never mind how I know it. I just do.”

I followed well behind him for a few blocks and decided it was better to take him before he scored than after. Before allowed me to use Martyr’s own sickness to pressure him. Jimmy wouldn’t even have to do a thing except keep him in the car while I questioned him. If we took him afterwards, things could get a little more complicated. Once he bought the skag, it was the prospect of getting caught carrying narcotics by two nasty-dispositioned cops—hey, I wasn’t going to tell him otherwise—and the prospect of jail time that would work the bad magic on him. But sometimes, if the connection and the user were cozy enough, the junkie would shoot up in the dealer’s place. No, before was better.

Then, just as I put my foot down on the accelerator to catch up to Martyr, he stopped, turned, walked down the steps of a non-descript two-family house and disappeared through the basement apartment door. So much for taking too much time for deliberate thought. Now we only had one option open to us and that was to wait until he came back out. I wasn’t about to bust into the basement and play Cops and Robbers: The Drug Bust Edition. Dealers had a lot to protect, including their lives, their stashes, and their money. That meant they usually had security in the form of hired help or guns or dogs: sometimes all three, but at least one or two. And as the minutes went by, I knew he was doing his business in the dealer’s apartment.