Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

  “And now he is dead. Tell me, Esteban; who killed Steven Hayward?”

  “I do not know,” Esteban Martinez said.

  Javier Garcia glared at him. “Whoever killed Steven Hayward will undoubtedly strike again.”

  Esteban Martinez sighed. “It is of course possible that it was a random occurrence. People are often murdered for the drugs that they carry, and those who sell drugs often have cash lying about the house.”

  Javier Garcia gave a tiny snort. “It is possible. It is not likely.” He looked at Esteban Martinez. “Find out, Esteban. Find out who did this.”

  “Of course,” Esteban Martinez said.

  “Croft,” Barent said.

  Croft was a tall, black man wearing an expensive leather jacket, gold chains around his neck, and designer jeans. A small, curvy blonde with a pert nose, green eyes and full lips clung to his side. Croft looked up at Barent and winced. “Barent,” he said tonelessly.

  Barent smiled and slid into the booth. Croft and the blonde both stared at him.

  “So,” Barrent said. “What’s new?”

  Croft puffed up his cheeks. He said nothing and continued to stare. Barent signaled to a waiter, pulled out a small notebook and a pen. Croft winced. The waiter, a slender young man with a haircut that leaned heavily to one side of his head and probably cost several hundred bucks, wandered over. “Can I get you beautiful people something?”

  “Cheeseburger and fries, medium well,” Barent said. “Blue Moon.”

  The waiter gave him a big smile. “Coming right up.”

  Croft drew a deep breath. “What is it this time?” he said.

  Barent’s eyes flicked to the blonde.

  “This is Regina,” Croft said. “My fiancée.”

  Barent’s eyebrows rose. Croft was an information broker. He had a head for figures, a high IQ and made it his business to collect random bits of information. He was also a pimp. A highly successful pimp. His girls were smart, good-looking and skilled. Croft treated them well, like the valuable commodity that they were. He never beat them or abused them in any way. They rarely stayed for long, though. Whoring, for most of them, was a way station on the way to something else. This was just fine with Croft. Always more where they came from, which was usually from the campus of one of New York’s many institutions of higher learning.

  Barent had been assuming that Regina was one of Croft’s stable. Then again, maybe she was.

  “Congratulations,” Barent said.

  Croft grunted. Regina bared her teeth.

  “So,” Barent said, “where was I? Oh, yes. I figured you could help me.” He grinned. “I need some information.” Barent had spoken with three contacts already this evening, and gotten nothing useful. After Croft, he planned on going home and calling it a night.

  Croft sighed. He shook his head. “I know you put a word in to the parole board, Barent, but you and I were even a long time ago. Helping you would probably not be good for my bottom line. Or my health.”

  The waiter plunked down a frosted stein and a bottle of Blue Moon with an orange slice on top and wandered away. Barent watched him until he was out of earshot. “You employ a lot of girls,” Barent said, “and your girls hear things. I’m not asking you to give me anything confidential or incriminating. What I need to know has nothing to do with you or your business.”

  Croft sighed. “What?”

  Regina gave a small shake of her head but said nothing.

  Barent looked at Regina. “Perhaps you might like to take a short trip to the Ladies’ Room.”

  “I think I’ll stay right here,” Regina said. She had a smooth, deep voice. Strange to hear a big voice like that from such a tiny body.

  “She can stay,” Croft said. He grinned. “Regina, she know all my secrets.”

  Somehow, Barent doubted this but if that’s the way Croft wanted to play it, then fine with him. He shrugged. “Any rumors on the street about new drugs?”

  “Huh…” Croft said. He sat back. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

  Barent waited.

  “Some of my girls, they go with some rich dudes. You know?”

  Barent nodded.

  “Rich dudes got big egos. Sometimes, they got big mouths. It all a game to them; beat the competition, own something the other rich guy don’t own, a car, a plane, a girl, something to put up their nose.” Croft shrugged. “A lot of guys like a little blow before getting down to business. A lot of them like to share with their current lady. They think it impresses them, make them a little more pliable, more up for the evening’s entertainment.” Croft grinned and squeezed Regina a little closer to his side. Regina glanced at Barent and grinned. “But,” Croft said, “and this is a very big but, this is a lot more common with the pros. A pro, she got herself a client list. She and the client, they know each other. They talk, they feel comfortable. Rich dudes don’t generally get rich by being stupid. My girls, they more semi-pros, if you know what I mean.”

  Barent looked at him. “No,” he said. “I have no idea at all what you mean.”

  Croft raised an eyebrow. “My girls, they young. A lot of them be college kids. Some of them doing it for a lark. They like the money but none of them plan on making it a career. They motivated. They have goals.” He frowned down at the top of Regina’s head then gave Barent a half-hearted grin. “I got no interest in going back to prison. I pick my business associates very carefully. The guys I deal with, they want someone young and pretty and compliant. They like to spend a little time with girls young enough to be their daughters but they don’t tell them any secrets, nothing that could come back to haunt them. It too big a risk. They don’t know them. They don’t trust them enough to keep their mouths shut.”

  “I don’t understand that,” Barent said. “They’re employing young prostitutes but you claim that they don’t want to take any risks and they don’t want to do anything that could come back to haunt them. This seems a little inconsistent.” Barent gave Croft a hard look. “I really should arrest you.”

  Croft gave him a look that clearly conveyed the opinion that Barent was an idiot. “I get paid for scheduling a meeting. I’m only the referral service. Payment to her is for time, conversation and companionship only. No sexual shenanigans are implied, committed or contracted for. She choose to boff his brains out, that strictly up to her. It got nothing at all to do with me. They be nothing illegal in that.”

  Strictly speaking, this was true. Escorting, as it was called, was not, in fact, against the law. The only thing that was against the law was the direct exchange of money for sex.

  “It works both ways. My girls be smart. They smart enough to size the client up and give him what he wants. They call the client Daddy and tell him he so big and strong and handsome, even if he small and fat and ugly. None of my girls be interested in drugs. If they were, I would get rid of them.”

  “That’s…disappointing,” Barent said. But not exactly surprising. He shook his head. “So, you don’t have any names...”

  Croft grinned. “I didn’t say that. I do have one name. I going to send you to an old friend.”

  Chapter 11

  Arnaldo Figueroa was doing well. His left leg was still weak, his left hand clumsy, the feeling in both limbs diminished, but Arnaldo Figueroa knew the score. He went about his therapy with grim diligence, limping along the parallel bars, squeezing a rubber ball as if he wanted to crush it, which he did.

  He had been moved from Bellevue to the Abrams Rehabilitation Institute of Easton Medical Center, Staunton College of Medicine, which was, frankly, something of a misnomer. The word ‘Institute’ carried gravitas. It impressed people. It sounded important. The actual Institute, however, occupied a mere eleven beds on a single floor of the hospital and the Department of Rehabilitative Medicine consisted of three physicians who spent the majority of their time at the school, not Easton. One of these, a portly little guy with thick glasses, bushy eyebrows and a bald head had outlined a treatment plan that the physical the
rapists were diligently following, but he otherwise saw Arnaldo Figueroa no more than once every few days. Kurtz was not a rehab specialist but he was a police surgeon and still nominally in charge of the case.

  “How are you, Arnie?” Kurtz asked.

  Arnie grinned at Kurtz, Drew Johnson, Linda Rodriguez and Richie Allen, the medical student. This was Richie’s first clinical rotation. He stared at everything with wide eyes.

  “Not bad, Doc.”

  “Could you hold out your hands?”

  He sat up and held both arms out in front of him. It took a fraction of a second longer for the left arm to move into position. The arm was noticeably thinner than the right, the fingers flexed into a claw.

  “Can you spread your fingers?”

  A look of grim concentration crossed Figueroa’s face. His lips thinned. Slowly, the fingers of his left hand opened and spread.

  Kurtz nodded. “That’s good. You’re getting there.”

  Figueroa sighed. “Better than it was.” He looked up at Kurtz. “Am I ever going to get back to work?”

  Kurtz had never lied to a patient. He wasn’t going to start now. “I don’t know, Arnie. It’s possible but the odds are slim.”

  Figueroa sank back into the bed. He swallowed.

  “It’s too soon to be discouraged,” Kurtz said. “You’re making good progress.”

  “Okay,” Figueroa said. “Might as well go for it. Not much else to do here.”

  “Keep it up,” Kurtz said. “I’ll see you, tomorrow.”

  Barent met Christine Morales at the Modern. When they had first sat down, she had asked to see Barent’s ID, which he turned over without comment. She examined it carefully, then handed it back.

  She wasn’t what Barent had been expecting. She wasn’t young, for one thing. She had thick, black hair, a smooth, unlined face and even, golden skin. Her eyes sparkled, as if she found life endlessly fascinating. Her shoulders were broad, her breasts impressive, her posture straight. She wore a tailored business suit with just a hint of cleavage showing and looked like an adolescent’s dream of his sexy, favorite aunt. She wore a large diamond and a wedding ring on her left hand. She reminded Barent not at all of his usual informant.

  Christine Morales said very little at first. She sipped a glass of white wine and listened carefully while Barent spoke, focusing her wide, dark eyes on Barent’s face, clearly paying attention. Barent found it…soothing, almost, even flattering. If she was putting on an act, she was very, very good at it.

  “Tell me about your business,” Barent said, while they waited for the food to arrive.

  She smiled. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”

  “Money exchanged is for time, conversation and companionship only. Isn’t that so? I’m not asking you to incriminate yourself.”

  She laughed softly. “What exactly do you need to know?”

  It was a long shot. Barent knew that. The number of people in New York City who used and abused narcotics in any single day numbered in the thousands. The chances that this particular woman might have some special insight to offer was slim. Still, Barent had no place better to be and he was enjoying his lunch.

  “First of all, I am a member of the Homicide Division of the NYPD.”

  Christine Morales nodded. Barent had already said this.

  “My interest in any other crimes is peripheral. Specifically, three people were recently murdered, in two separate instances. The only similarity was the excessive level of violence. The crimes may be completely unrelated. However, one of them had been abusing heroin laced with a very unusual and very dangerous narcotic. The other two were a drug dealer and his wife.”

  Christine Morales raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think that I can help you with this?”

  Christine Morales ran a very exclusive, very upscale escort agency. The women she employed were, unlike Croft and his stable of college kids, professionals. Or so Croft had told him.

  “Christine, she started out as one of my girls,” Croft had said, “a long time ago. She was studying psychology at NYU, wanted a little extra money and got my name from a friend of a friend. Turned out, she a natural, had a real talent for the business.” Croft smiled and shook his head. “After a year or so working for me, she decided that she already doing more good for both mankind and her bank account than she could with a Ph.D. Similar work, different methods.” A thoughtful look crossed Croft’s face. “Maybe not so different.”

  Barent frowned. Croft smiled. “You gonna pay my referral fee?”

  Barent merely stared at him. Croft’s smile grew wider. He snickered. “No? Why don’t we consider it an act of charity for one of New York’s finest?”

  Regina had laughed.

  “According to my source,” Barent said to Christine Morales, “the women that you employ often hear things.”

  “Croft,” she said. “He told me you would be calling.”

  Barent nodded.

  “Croft is an anomaly in the business,” Christine Morales said. “He actually cares about the girls that he employs. He never abuses them, not in the slightest.”

  “So I hear.”

  Every good cop had a stable of snitches, guys who could be depended upon to give a little information for a little consideration, which could range from a few bucks to a get-out-of-jail-free card, depending on the crime and the circumstances. Barent’s crime, however, was murder. Barent’s snitches, like Croft, were not at the level of the street. Barent had, of course, notified the Narcotics Squad of his needs and even now, he was certain, many cops other than himself were having discreet conversations with junkies and low-level suppliers all over the five boroughs. One of these, Barent was fully aware, was far more likely than himself to come up with a useful lead. Lunch with Christine Morales was more in the nature of a fishing expedition than a criminal investigation. He smiled to himself. Still, if his current efforts led nowhere, he was enjoying the conversation and he intended to enjoy his lunch.

  “It is true,” Christine Morales said, “that the ladies in my employ will often hear things that their clients would prefer to keep confidential.” She grinned at him and sipped her wine. “It’s a business built on mutual trust.”

  Barent had his doubts about this but he gave an encouraging nod.

  “It’s a strange business, in a way, very private, obviously. It takes place in some of the richest, most luxurious surroundings, and involves some of the richest, most influential men and women on Earth. Very few of these men and women are stupid. Very few are eager to endanger themselves.”

  “Please go on,” Barent said.

  She smiled. “One of my clients—let’s call him Joachim, though that is not his real name—is a business man from South America. He stays at high-end hotels. Most often, he rents a suite and he requests my company for the night.”

  Barent blinked at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “I was under the impression,” Barent said carefully, “that your position was more management than labor.”

  Christine Morales laughed. “This man is an old friend. I make exceptions for old friends, and I always loved my work.”

  “And what does he do, this old friend?”

  “He’s an executive with a trading company. They export products from Argentina: native art, carved figurines, wine…” She shrugged.

  “What is he like?”

  “A very pleasant man. Very polite.” She smiled. “Very strong.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  She frowned. “Our lives, mostly. His family and work. We have a very cordial, professional relationship. I would never betray his confidence, but truly, I know nothing at all about him that would reflect poorly on either his character or his activities. He is a gentleman.”

  Take that, Barent thought. He took a bite out of his sandwich. Christine Morales sipped her wine.

  “And yet,” Barent said, “he is spending time with you, rather than his wife. I assume that he has a wife?”


  She stared at him, then smiled widely. “I do believe you’re a prude.”

  Probably, Barent thought. He shrugged.

  “Joachim is a wealthy man,” she said, “and he comes from a wealthy family. He married when he was very young, to a woman of a similar social class. He barely knew her when they married—it was arranged by their parents—but neither objected and the marriage is a happy one. They have four children, all now adult. His wife spends much of her time on charity work. They are both sophisticated, cosmopolitan people. He would never say one word against his wife. He respects her. He is very fond of her, and she of him.”

  Barent must have looked doubtful. “Neither of them,” she said, “are American. They do not necessarily share your values, your customs or your beliefs.”

  Perhaps not. In any case, this was getting him nowhere. “Did he ever offer you drugs?”

  Christine Morales sat back, shocked. “Certainly not.”

  “Did you ever see him do drugs.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He looked at her. “Then why are we talking about him?”

  “You asked me about my business.”

  “Oh. So I did.” Barent scratched the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed. “Did he ever speak of drugs? In any way?”

  Christine Morales frowned. “Joachim was a wild one, long ago, when he was young. He did many things that he now regards as foolish. He gambled. He raced cars. He took insane chances with his life and yes, he did a lot of drugs. And then one day, when he was very high, he crashed a car. The young woman with him was killed. His family had influence. He was never charged, but the experience changed his life. He hasn’t touched drugs since that day.

  “Sometimes he would speak of the drug epidemic, particularly among the young, always with regret, and disapproval.”

  “How long have you been…associated with him?”

  “Fifteen years,” she said.

  “And in that time, how often have you seen him?”

  She appeared to think about it. “I’m not certain of the exact number. Perhaps twice a year. Some years, three.”