Chapter 19
Laura Delarico has finished her story.
“So that’s it. The clients don’t pay us girls directly. It’s all online, I guess. I don’t really know. When it was over, I just left.”
Burke speaks. “Detective Moncrief and I want to thank you. We know this has been tough.”
“I wish I could have helped more,” Laura says. “I’m not afraid. I just…well, that’s what happened.”
“You’ve helped us more than you can imagine,” I say. Sincerely, softly. “What you gave us was big. I’m fairly certain Maria Martinez visited Paulo’s room as well.”
Burke agrees. “There’s a very real possibility she was the dark-haired girl he rejected before you.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Laura says.
“You’re right,” I say. “Not yet. But it is a logical deduction. He may have killed her and disposed of her. Or he may have put her body in the bathroom.”
“The one he wouldn’t let me use,” she says quietly. “I guess that makes sense.”
K. Burke holds up her hand. “Or we may be completely off base. Maybe it was not Maria Martinez. Maybe we’ve got it all wrong.”
I cannot resist. I say, “Ah, K. Burke, ever the jolly optimist.”
I reach over and gently touch Laura Delarico’s hand. She does not pull away. She is so much less frightened than she was a few hours ago.
“And that is why…” Suddenly, I must stop speaking. Oh, shit. Oh, no.
I feel my throat begin to burn. I’m having trouble breathing. Maria is on my mind, in my heart. Because of Laura’s information, we may actually have a shot at solving Maria’s murder.
K. Burke senses the emotional hole I’ve fallen into. She finishes my remarks.
“And that’s why…we need you to help us just a little bit more.”
Chapter 20
Laura says nothing for a few long moments.
“Well?” I say.
Laura is suddenly businesslike. Sharp. Composed.
“I know what you’ll do if I don’t keep helping you,” she says.
“You know what we’ll do?” I ask. “I don’t even know what we’ll do except ask you to help us.”
“No,” Laura says. “You’ll play the Grandpa card.”
“The what?” I ask.
K. Burke is far quicker than I am in this matter.
“Laura thinks we’ll tell her grandfather how she’s been making money,” says Burke.
For the first time I see a toughness in Laura. I am beginning to think that Laura Delarico is not so naive and innocent as I first thought. She’ll make a good lawyer someday.
“Believe whatever you want, Laura,” I say, “but I promise you with my heart that we will never do such a thing.”
“I guess I’ll believe you because…well, because I want to believe you,” Laura says. “I want to help…at least, I think I want to help. Oh, this sucks. This whole thing sucks.”
Time for a bottom line. Laura agrees to continue to help. “But just one more time.”
Later, after Laura leaves, K. Burke and I walk the dirty gray hallway back to the detective room.
“Nice job,” Burke says. “Your performance won her over.”
“Did you think that was a performance, K. Burke?” I ask.
“To be honest, I don’t know.”
Back at our desks, we learn that Paulo Montes will not be in New York for three days. He is on a quick drug trip through San Juan, Havana, and Kingston.
I tell Burke that I’m going to take one of those three days off.
“Impossible!” she exclaims. “Your presence is critical. We have Vice files to examine. We have a reinspection of the murder scene as well as forensics at Montes’s suite. I need you to—”
I cut her off immediately. “Hold it,” I say sharply. “Here’s what I need from you. I need you to stop thinking that you’re my boss. You’re my partner. And I don’t mean to throw this in your face, K. Burke, but we would not be progressing if I had not pursued my very unprofessional way of doing things.”
K. Burke gives me her version of a sincere smile. Then she says, “Whatever you say, partner.”
Chapter 21
A man knows he’s in love when he’s totally happy just watching his girlfriend do even the simplest things—peeling an apple, combing her hair, fluffing up a bed pillow, laughing.
That is precisely how I’m feeling when I walk into the ridiculously tricked-out media room of Dalia’s apartment: the Apologue speakers, the Supernova One screen, the leather Eames chairs. A room that is insanely lavish and almost never used.
As I walk in I see Dalia standing on a stepladder. Her back is to me. She is frantically sorting through the small closet high above the wet bar. She neither sees nor hears me enter. I stand and watch her for a moment. I smile. Dalia is wearing jeans and a turquoise T-shirt. As she stretches, one or two inches of her lower back are exposed.
I walk toward her and kiss her gently on that enticing lower back.
She gives a quick little yell.
“Don’t be scared,” I say. “It’s only me.”
She steps off the ladder and we embrace fully. I know a great kiss cannot wash away a bad day, but it surely can make the night seem a little bit brighter.
“When did this closet become the junk closet?” she asks as she climbs back up the ladder and begins tossing things down to me.
A plastic bag of poker chips. These are followed by three Scrabble tiles (W, E, and the always important X ). A plastic box containing ivory chess pieces, but no chessboard in sight. And a true relic from the Victorian era: a Game Boy.
“This is for you,” she says as she pretends to hit me on the head with a wooden croquet mallet. I add the mallet to the ever-expanding pile of items next to me.
“And you’ll like this,” she says with a smile. Dalia leans down and hands me a small gold box. I open it. It contains two little bronze balls the size of small marbles. Never saw them before. I shrug.
“Give up?” she asks. “They’re those Chinese things they use for sex, for the vagina.”
“The vagina?” I say. “Yes. I think I’ve heard of it.” She laughs and punches me lightly on the arm. I decide not to ask where she got them—or how often she used them or with whom.
“Well,” she says. “At least we’ve solved one mystery. This closet is not a junk closet. It is obviously a game closet.”
“What exactly are you looking for, anyway?” I ask.
“This,” she says as she steps down off the ladder. She is holding a slim burgundy leather book. I recognize it immediately. It’s the yearbook for our class at Lycée Henri-IV.
She opens it and turns to the page that has her graduation picture. “I was thinking of getting bangs. The last time I had them was when I was a kid. I wanted to see if I was as goofy-looking as I remember.” She frowns. “Guess I was.”
I say exactly what is expected of a man in this situation. The only difference is that this man means it with all his heart.
“You were beautiful,” I say.
“You’re mad. Braids on the side and bangs in the front. I look like a goatherd.”
I reach toward her and touch her face.
“If so, then you are la plus belle goatherd since the beginning of time.” I lean in and kiss her. Then I speak. “How about we have something nice to drink?”
“How about a nice warm bath, with lavender perfume?” she says.
“A bath?” I say. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m that thirsty.”
Dalia taps me playfully on my nose. Then she heads toward the bathroom.
Chapter 22
Auberge du Parc Hotel
Three days later
1:20 a.m.
Laura knocks on the hotel-room door. Everything feels just as it did the last time she visited Paulo.
She wears a white oxford-cloth shirt. Just as she did the last time. The tiny entrance hall where she waits stinks of liquor
and bad cologne. Just as it did the last time. One other thing that’s the same, one other thing she cannot deny: she’s horribly frightened. Her arm shakes as she knocks on the door again.
Yes, Moncrief and Burke have assured her that everything is set up to keep her perfectly safe. This time, hidden in Paulo’s bedroom are two minuscule video surveillance cameras: one is attached to a large bronze lamp on the writing desk, the other to the fake gold-leaf-and-crystal chandelier hanging directly over the king-size bed. The videos play on monitors that are being watched two doors away by five people: Luc Moncrief, K. Burke, Inspector Nick Elliott, and two officers from Vice.
Paulo opens the door and steps back. He smiles at her.
This time Paulo manages to look even more disgusting than before. Laura Delarico quietly gasps as she takes in the repellent sight: Paulo the Pig is completely naked except for a pair of short brown socks.
“So,” he says. “They sent you back like I asked. I’m glad. You’re the best.”
Laura and the five people watching in the other room realize immediately that Paulo Montes is drunk or drugged or both. He stumbles. He slurs his words. His feeble erection collapses as he lunges toward her, and he begins half spitting and half kissing, half hugging and half groping her.
“Hold on. Come on. Just hold on,” Laura says. Then she uses one of the first conversation starters that a woman learns in “prostitute school.”
“Let’s get to know each other.”
Laura wonders how she will ever get Paulo to talk about the dark-haired woman, the woman who may have been Maria Martinez. Laura wafts in and out of that nightmare. She must keep reminding herself she is there to help uncover the truth of the death of a woman she never even knew.
Paulo is even more impatient this time at bat. He tugs hard at Laura’s shirt. Two buttons snap off and onto the floor. He pushes his greasy face into her breasts as if he is trying to suck in oxygen from the space between them.
Within a few seconds, he has her on the bed. They are, for the moment, side by side, facing each other. The slobbering. The saliva. The boozy breath.
“So,” Laura ventures, trying to cajole him into a calmer, gentler mood. “Just tell me how much more you like me than that dark-haired girl who was here.”
Paulo is in no mood for conversation. He is somewhere between crazy drunk and crazy turned on.
“Dark?” he shouts. “Was her hair dark? I don’t remember. Does any bitch have the color she’s born with? In Brazil they all lie. Lie and dye. That’s the joke in Rio and São Paulo. Let’s check you. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”
Laura fears a harsh inspection of her pubic hair. Instead Montes rolls over and on top of her. He grabs a great chunk of her hair and pulls it hard with his fat heavy hands. She yells for him to stop.
“I have to find the roots!” he screams and laughs simultaneously.
In the surveillance room, Inspector Elliott speaks loudly: “We’ve got to stop this immediately, Moncrief. We can haul him in right now for aggravated assault.”
“I don’t want him arrested. I want him to talk,” says Moncrief. “I want to get the story on Maria.”
“I swear, Moncrief. This whole thing is a half-assed setup. I should never have let it get this far.”
“Inspector! Look!” K. Burke says. All five in the surveillance group peer intently at the screen. Paulo Montes is grunting and making animal-like noises as he pinches one of Laura’s nipples hard and fiercely bites the other.
“That’s it!” yells Elliott.
“Give it five seconds,” says Moncrief as he grabs Elliott by the arm to urge him to remain. “The guy might calm down.”
Almost as if Montes actually heard Moncrief speak, Paulo begins gently massaging Laura’s breasts.
“There, there,” Paulo says softly. “You are beautiful. I could love a woman like you.”
Paulo gently brushes his lips against Laura’s beautiful soft cheeks. He touches her chin and runs his hand down her neck.
“Kiss me,” Paulo says. “Kiss me like you love me.”
Laura knows her job. She kisses him softly on his lips.
Then suddenly, horribly, Montes slaps Laura violently against her right cheek, so violently that her head snaps to the side. She lets out a scream.
“You are just another dumb bitch,” Montes shouts, saliva dripping from his mouth onto Laura’s face.
“Get away!” Laura screams. “Get the hell off of me!”
Paulo slaps her again, then holds her down by her wrists. She is fighting as hard as she can. But it’s useless.
Again she screams, “Get off! Stop it!”
As Paulo is about to sink his teeth into her, the door to the room swings open.
“NYPD! Freeze!” The voice belongs to Moncrief.
Moncrief, Burke, and both Vice officers are holding guns. They all rush toward the bed.
With the help of one of the Vice cops, Moncrief pulls Montes away from Laura.
Laura quickly rolls away from her attacker. Then she grabs a pillow and holds it up to cover her nakedness. Montes thrashes about in a futile attempt to free himself from Moncrief and the cop. He keeps struggling and manages to push his one free hand under another pillow. He pulls out a pistol. He shoots it once. The bullet hits the TV screen. It shatters into a small mountain of glass pieces. Moncrief pushes his own index and middle fingers into Montes’s face. The drunken Montes manages to get off one more shot. The bullet hits a Vice officer’s forearm. As Moncrief and the two officers struggle to pull the naked fat man to his feet, Montes struggles to bring his arm around. Montes aims the gun at Laura.
A final shot. It comes from Moncrief’s gun.
The bullet goes right into Montes’s neck via his Adam’s apple.
Laura Delarico is sobbing. K. Burke is on her cell, calling for reinforcements, forensics, the coroner, police attorneys, the DA’s office. Nick Elliott closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth.
When she finishes her phone calls, K. Burke takes a gray jumpsuit from one of the police kits. She walks to Laura and helps her slip into it. For just a moment Burke’s eyes meet Moncrief’s.
The two of them are thinking the same thing. They are no closer to solving the case of Maria Martinez. And the one person who might have helped them is now dead.
Chapter 23
Photographers. And more photographers. Detectives and more detectives. Statements are made and then repeated. Hotel guests wander into the hallway.
We go to the precinct. More detectives. Two police attorneys. Everyone agrees: my bullet was justified. The surveillance video verifies what happened. My colleagues can easily rationalize that the world is a better place without Paulo Montes. I want to rationalize it also, but I cannot ignore the fact that I’m the cop who made it happen.
I go home.
“I’m awake,” I hear Dalia shout. “Be right out.”
I move toward the bedroom.
We meet in the hallway, and we stand directly in front of a black-and-white Léger poster, a drawing of four people artfully intertwined. Dalia and I do not kiss, but we hug each other with all our strength, as if we are afraid that the other person might slip away.
A few minutes later we are seated on a sofa. We watch the city sky slowly brighten. We both sip a snifter of Rémy. I devour a bowl of cashews. I tell her about my evening. Her face fills with horror, her eyes widen when I tell her about the horrific ending.
“Oh, my God, Luc. You must feel…I don’t know…I don’t know how you must feel.”
“I don’t think I know, either,” I say. “I’ve never killed anyone.”
I find myself remembering the shooting range near Porte de la Chapelle, where I spent so many hours learning how to load and shoot, load and shoot. The paper dummies, the foolishly big ear protectors. One-handed aim, two-handed aim, shoot from a prone position, shoot from a standing position. But shoot, always shoot. You got him. You got him. You missed him. You got him.
&nb
sp; My plan for Montes would have worked. I am sure it would have worked.
I take the last gulp of my Cognac. I swipe the inside of the cashew bowl with my index finger. I touch my salty finger to the tip of Dalia’s tongue. She smiles. I hold her tightly.
I tell Dalia that all I want to do now is sleep. She understands. We begin walking toward the bedroom. I stop for a moment. So Dalia stops also.
I have an idea. A very good idea. So good I want to share it with someone. But I’d be a fool to share it with Burke and Elliott. What about Dalia? I usually tell her everything, but not this time, not this idea. She’d kill me if she knew.
Dalia looks up at me.
“You’re smiling,” she says. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just you,” I say. And as we fall on the bed, I consider crossing my fingers behind my back.
Chapter 24
I call Gary Kuehn at Vice. He’s one of the few guys in that department who’s smart enough to appreciate what he calls my shenanigans.
Shenanigans. English is a wonderful language.
Gary e-mails me a list of names of “superior sex workers” (translation: high-class hookers) and their managers (translation: drug-dealing abusive johns). I specifically request names of girls who regularly service the toniest areas of the Upper East Side.
I tell my new plan to no one—not K. Burke, not Nick Elliott, not even Gary. At midafternoon, I take an Uber car across town and check into a room at the Pierre, on Fifth Avenue at 61st Street. A mere seventeen hundred dollars a night. I silently thank my father for the large allowance that makes this expensive escapade possible.
I arrange for a series of these high-priced call girls to visit my room—one girl every thirty minutes. I do all the scheduling—the phoning and texting and e-mailing—myself.
At three o’clock a girl with incandescent mahogany skin appears. Her skin is so shiny it looks polished. Her hair is short and dark. She smiles. I am sitting in a comfortable blue club chair. She approaches me and touches my face.
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