Mean Business on North Ganson Street (15 page)

Bettinger did not know for certain if the abused dealer was involved with the executions, but the fellow certainly had a grievance against the Victory police, and his disappearance from the hospital on the day of the event was a coincidence that should be investigated.

A huge yawn erupted from the detective's head. Moisture dampened his burning eyes, and the road turned into a watercolor painting.

“Christ's uncle.”

Bettinger passed through an intersection and saw a four-story brownstone that wore ivy and the number 261. A moment later, he landed the hatchback beside the curb, near two very big white guys who were tossing a football back and forth.

The detective holstered his gun and exited his car. As he reached the sidewalk, the fullbacks exchanged a glance and drew apart.

“Heads up.”

The football whistled past the back of Bettinger's skull and slapped the palms of the larger fellow, who had sunglasses and a rusty beard.

Ignoring the provocation, the detective climbed the steps to the front door of the brownstone, where he pressed and released the buzzer of the rear fifth-floor apartment.

No reply emerged from the panel.

The detective waited a moment and fingered the button a second time, holding it down for a longer period of time, but again, his solicitation elicited no response. Behind him, the football whistled through the air and snapped against the palms of its recipient.

Bettinger faced the near fullback. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah?” The bearded fellow threw a tight pass to his distant contemporary, who caught the projectile and held it aloft like a wartime enemy's severed head.

“You know Sebastian Ramirez?”

“Of.”

“Seen him around?”

The football slapped between the fellow's pink hands, and he waved at his peer, saying, “Go long.” As the other fullback walked east, the hirsute man returned his attention to the detective. “He's in the hospital. Been there a while.” He eyed his friend (who had stopped retreating) and shouted, “Longer!”

“Thanks.” Bettinger descended the steps.

“You look pretty beat,” stated the bearded fellow.

The detective paused.

“You're hurting?” The fullback-turned-quarterback catapulted the football into the sky. “That why you're looking for Sebastian?” The projectile arced through the cold and snapped between the distant receiver's hands.

“You know where Sebastian is?”

“The hospital—like I said.” The football appeared between the fullback's hands like a magic trick. “You interested in something?”

“You're picking up the slack while he's away?”

“Not me.” The bearded fellow threw another long pass. “But I might know a guy who knows someone.”

Bettinger had more important things to do than chase a drug relay operation. “Maybe later.”

“I'll be working on my bomb.”

“Until Sebastian gets back?” the detective asked as he approached his little yellow car.

“I don't think a wheelchair can go up and down those steps.” The football snapped between the fullback's hands. “Well … I guess maybe down.”

“That's tough.” Bettinger sat inside the hatchback.

“See you soon.”

The detective closed the door, shifted gears, and pulled away from the curb.

*   *   *

A twenty-minute drive brought Bettinger to the baby blue apartment complex in which lived Sebastian's sister Margarita. There, he parked his car, walked to the outer door, and thumbed the woman's buzzer.

The only reply that the detective received was from the wind, which keened through a cracked transom window.

As he departed, he located Margarita's red sports utility vehicle in the parking lot. It had a couple of flyers underneath its wipers, which seemed to indicate that it had been sitting there for a while. These details were added to Bettinger's notepad, even though he rarely forgot anything.

*   *   *

The detective drove, fighting the gravity well that was sleep.

Soon, he neared the third address, where lived the young woman who was said to be Sebastian's girlfriend. The sheet on Melissa Spring did not say much other than that she was a brunette junior college graduate who had been arrested as a teenager for shoplifting and driving while intoxicated.

Bettinger landed in the parking lot of the rose-colored apartment building in which the woman lived, locked his car, and walked along a cracked stone path that divided two rectangles of dead grass. His stomach growled, clamoring for something more substantial than a protein bar or coffee.

“Be patient.”

As he reached the entrance, the door swung open, and he seized its handle. A short white woman who had spiky black hair, a pierced nose, and a puffy lime green jacket emerged, glaring at the detective.

“Police,” said Bettinger, displaying his badge.

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Sure I do.”

The detective walked past the woman and entered the lobby, which was decorated with frosted mirrors that might have been fashionable in the 1980s for a period of one week. Three plump cats slept in the corner near a radiator, and the detective envied their simple existence.

“This is a privately owned building,” the woman proclaimed from the doorway. “You can't just come in here because you want to.”

“It's amazing what I can't do.” The detective fingered the elevator button.

“That badge doesn't make you omnipotent.”

“Let me get a dictionary.”

The elevator door opened, and Bettinger entered a sarcophagus of frosted mirrors, where he was soon joined by the irate woman.

“You don't have anything better to do?” asked the detective.

“You don't have permission to be here. I want to make sure you don't damage anything or anyone or plant any evidence.”

“Should the police department expect another donation from you this holiday season?”

“My partner's father works for the city, so I know the kind of shit you guys pull.”

Bettinger wondered to what extent the Victory police force actually deserved their terrible reputation. As his adversary withdrew her cell phone from her lime green jacket, he fingered the fourth-floor button.

“My wife thinks my left side's handsomer—though you're the director.”

The door closed, and the elevator shuddered.

A digital image of the woman's black boots appeared on her cell phone, as did a movie camera icon. “I won't get in your way,” she announced. It was obvious that she was a very accomplished tattler.

The elevator stopped and opened. Bettinger entered a light blue passageway, and the spiky-haired woman followed after him, keeping her distance.

A dozen strides brought the detective to a door that wore the number 705. There, he paused and looked at the director, who was fifteen feet away from him. “What's my line?”

No suggestions came from the woman.

Bettinger returned his attention to the door and rang the bell. Inside the apartment, something heavy thudded upon the floor.

“It's the police,” announced the detective. “I'd l—”

“I didn't call the police.” The voice belonged to a young woman who sounded distraught.

“Are you Melissa Spring?”

“Her roommate.”

“When was the last time you saw Melissa?”

“Go away.”

“I'm a detective, and I'd like to talk to you.”

The woman inside the apartment said nothing more. After thirty seconds of silence, the spiky-haired tattler paused her cinematic endeavors.

“How do I know you're really a cop?” asked the resident.

Filming resumed.

“I have a badge and a very nice business card.” Something occurred to Bettinger. “Who else might I be?”

No reply issued from the other side of the door.

“May I talk to you in private?” asked the detective.

“I don't know where she is, okay?” Something wet and fearful was lodged in the back of the woman's throat. “Go away.”

“Somebody else already came by? Looking for her?”

A sniffle sounded inside the apartment.

“I'm going to hold up my badge and slide my card under the door to prove who I am.”

“I can't talk to the police.”

“Ma'am … whenever anybody says ‘I can't talk to the police,' they should talk to the police. Immediately. I can get a warrant, but then things become official.” Bettinger produced his badge. “Look outside.”

The peephole glass darkened.

“You see it?”

“Yeah.”

The detective wrote a message on the back of his business card and slid it under the door. “Look down.”

The peephole filled with light.

Thirty seconds later, Bettinger asked, “You read it?”

“Yeah.”

“Say it loudly.”

“I won't open this door until that nosy idiot with the camera goes away.”

The detective looked at the director and shrugged. “I'm not positive, but I think she means you.”

The spiky-haired woman glared at him.

“As of this moment,” Bettinger declared, “it's interfering with an investigation if you keep that on.” He aimed an index finger directly at the cell phone.

“I know what it means.” The tattler turned off the device and tucked it away. “You're pretty clever for a Victory cop.”

“I'm imported.”

“That explains it.”

A smirk glimmered upon the woman's face as she entered the stairwell. Her heavy boots thudded down the concrete steps, and soon, the sound was silenced by the closing door.

The detective returned his attention to the apartment. “She's gone.”

“Okay.” A bolt clacked. “I'm telling you now I've got a gun.”

“Do you intend to shoot me?”

“If you're not who you say you are.” The woman on the far side of the door sniffled. “I've had a bad morning.”

“What's your name?”

“Kimmy.”

“Okay, Kimmy. I'm Detective Jules Bettinger. You may call the police department and verify who I am if you'd like.”

“I believe you.”

A chain rattled.

Bettinger displayed his empty hands. “If you shoot me, where should I expect it?”

“The heart.”

“That'll be difficult.”

“Why?”

“Mine's the size of a grape.”

A bolt clacked, and retreating footfalls sounded within the apartment.

“It's unlocked,” said the young woman. “Let yourself in.”

 

XXIII

Kimmy's Likes and Dislikes

Bettinger entered a domain that had furry couches and mismatched rugs and smelled like a combination of berry air fresheners, incense, and marijuana. Beside a recliner chair that looked like a leopard stood Kimmy, a skinny, blond twentysomething who had busted lips, large dark eyes (one of which was swollen), and a red robe. A huge revolver dangled from her right hand, pointing at the middle of the corresponding foot. Although the young woman had two fingers curled around the trigger, the detective did not know if she had enough strength to successfully launch a bullet.

“Mind your toes.”

Kimmy saw that the muzzle of her firearm was trained upon her bare right foot. Carefully, she scooted her toes to safety.

Bettinger asked, “Should I close this?”

“Go ahead.”

The detective gently shut the door.

“Do the bottom lock.”

Bettinger turned the bolt that was directly above the doorknob. “Do you want me to stay here while we talk?”

“You can sit.”

“Cheetah or zebra?”

“Zebra.”

The detective walked across a paisley rug and sat upon a furry white couch that had black stripes. A bong lay underneath the opposing recliner, but he did not remark upon it.

Bettinger gestured at Kimmy's busted lips and swollen eye. “Did your previous visitor do that to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

The young woman nodded.

“Okay. I'm going to take out a notepad and a pencil. Please refrain from shooting me in the heart.”

“I won't shoot you.”

The detective produced his notepad, set it on the sofa, and withdrew a mechanical pencil.

“I remember that kind,” said Kimmy. “Had a class where we used them.” The young woman ruminated for a moment and shook her head. “I can't remember what it was.”

Bettinger did not gesture to the bong that lay underneath the recliner. “You can sit down if you'd like.”

“I'm too wired.” Kimmy leaned against the arm of the cheetah sofa, her gun carelessly threatening the life of a ratty stuffed animal that was either a moose or a bear. “So this morning,” she began, “like five in the morning, somebody buzzes the door. Usually me and Melissa just ignore it when people buzz—it's mostly kids or bums—but this guy keeps ringing and ringing, and she wasn't here to get it.”

“When did Melissa go away?”

“Monday.”

“You know where?”

“No.”

“Have any guesses?” asked Bettinger.

“She didn't say anything, she was just gone. She's gone a lot.”

“Does she have a car?”

“No. Her boyfriend usually gets her.”

“Sebastian Ramirez?”

“Yeah, though he's in the hospital now. Or I thought he was until what that guy said.”

“What guy?”

“The one from this morning. Let me tell it.” Kimmy pointed the hand that lacked a firearm at the intercom, which was beside the front door. “So I go to the thing and push the button—tell the guy to stop buzzing, and he doesn't say anything. All I hear is that crackle you get because the intercom sucks and's like a hundred years old.

“I pee and then I go back to bed, and he starts fucking buzzing again. Sounds like that noise in the hospital when the patient's heart stops—beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Annoying!”