...
“Oh, wow! I know where that is. That would be perfect. Only, it has to be after school, all right? Like right around this time? Not at—”
...
“Do you pay, like, by the hour?”
...
“Oooh! Really? How many hours could I—?”
...
“A gif? You want me to send you a...Oh, you mean, like, to see if I...”
...
“Couldn’t I just...?”
...
“Oh, okay. But I don’t have any really good pictures of myself. I mean, that’s what I wanted you to...”
...
“I’ll do it tonight! Just give me your addy....”
...
“Thanks! Buh-bye!”
“You did it perfect, honey,” I told Michelle.
“Swear to God, I closed my eyes, I thought you were seventeen,” Rejji praised her.
“But it’s no good, right?” Cyn said, catching my eye.
“I don’t think so, Cyn. You see what he’s doing, scamming girls into sending him pictures of themselves over the Inter-net, so they can ‘audition’ to be ‘models’ for him. He probably does have a little studio set up in his house. Maybe even actually pays a girl, every once in a while. It’s sleazy, but probably not even a crime. He didn’t ask you for nude shots, did he, Michelle?”
“No, baby. I gave it back to you, word-for-word. He wasn’t even suggesting anything. But, you know, some of those stupid girls, they’re going to go ahead and...”
“Sure,” I agreed, guessing their real reason was closer to the need-greed border than it was to stupidity.
“Couldn’t you at least go and talk to him?” Cyn said.
“There’s one thing that would qualify him,” I said to them all. “But I have to go back to the City and ask.”
I looked a question at Gateman as I came through the door. He shook his head. As good as the white-dragon tapestry in Mama’s window.
I went up to my place. My empty place.
It only took me a few minutes at the keyboard to get the answer. The Mole had scanned all of Wolfe’s paper on Vonni’s case into the hard drive of an IBM laptop, and Terry had shown me how to search the documents.
I cross-checked the info from Cyn—name, address, phone number. Nothing. Then I tried some keywords for the kind of thing he liked to do. Blank.
The man who scammed teenage girls into cyber-sending him naughty-cheerleader pictures had never been interviewed by the cops.
Late that night, alone in my place, I wanted the comfort of the blues. I cued up some Roy Buchanan, drifted along with “Drowning on Dry Land.” Rode all the way up to Chicago with Charlie Musselwhite, a bluesman who had made that same trip. Spent some time there with native son Paul Butterfield, then went back down to Texas for some of Delbert’s honkytonk.
Finally, I put some Henske on, closed my eyes, got myself lost in Magic Judy’s “Dark Angel.” When I got to the end of that road, I picked up the cellular and dialed Gem’s number.
It rang twice. Then came the series of tones that were a signal to leave a message.
I never could think of one to leave. But I let her hear the music for a few seconds, so she’d know it was me.
I looked out my window. Down into the dark. The deep dark. The Zero. But it didn’t pull at me like it had once. The Zero is everywhere. Always waiting. If I had wanted to...just not be anymore, I wouldn’t have come home to do it.
“What do you want?” He was a middle-aged white male, nothing remarkable, standing in the doorway of a modest Cape Cod. Nine-fifteen on a Thursday evening; just past dark.
“Allow me to introduce myself, sir,” I said. “My name is Mr. White. And this,” I said, nodding toward Clarence, “is my associate, Mr. Black.”
“I’m not buying—”
“And we’re not selling, sir. May we come in?”
“What is—?” he said. But by then we were all inside.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “This won’t take a minute. Is there a place where we could sit down?”
“I...” A guy who’d made a career out of suggesting—hinting, implying, making sure you got the message, without actually saying anything himself. He’d read Clarence’s shoulder holster like a billboard. His eyes never left us as he walked over to a living room dominated by a blank-faced projection TV set.
“All we want is for you to take a look at this photograph,” I said, sitting down.
His mud-brown eyes came alive when I said “photograph,” but I didn’t know him well enough to guess whether it was fear or excitement.
I handed him Vonni’s picture. He took it, tentatively at first, then visibly relaxed as he examined it.
“Have you ever seen her?” I asked him, already knowing the answer.
“No,” he said—indignant, now that he was innocent. “What’s this all about?”
“We’re trying to locate anyone who might have been in contact with her,” I said.
“Why? Is she a runaway or something?”
“She’s dead, sir.”
“Oh. I didn’t...I mean, what happened?”
“It was in all the papers,” I told him. “About a year ago. That’s Vonni Greene.”
“That’s her? I mean, I know what you’re talking about now. I think I did see a picture...in the papers, right...but this doesn’t look like that one, I don’t think. You guys, you’re not cops, are you?”
“No, Mr. Trebin, we’re not the police. That’s what interested us. When the police were investigating the case, they talked to everyone who might have been involved in this girl’s life. Anyone who might have come into contact with her in any way at all. And it seems like they never talked to you.”
“That’s because I never—”
“That’s because they didn’t have your name,” I cut him off. “But we can fix that, if you’d like.”
“I...I don’t care,” he said, falling way short of defiant. “I told you, I’ve never even seen—”
Clarence caught my eye, nodded. But we kept him talking for another few minutes, just to make sure.
“I don’t like ghosting those country cribs,” the Prof said, back at the house. “People out in the sticks, they don’t mind their own business the way city folks do.”
“How long did it take you?” I asked.
“To get in? It was a cheesebox, Schoolboy. Maybe ten seconds. We didn’t have a floor plan, but I could hear you all talking, so I knew where I had to keep to.”
“Where was it?”
“Basement, bro. Just like we’d figured.”
“And he had a computer?”
“Yeah. I don’t know nothing about the damn things, but he sure had him a big-ass screen for it. Like you said, I didn’t touch it.”
“Find anything else?”
“Pictures, bro. Motherfucker had hundreds of them, minimum. Tacked up all over the place.”
“And they were all—”
“What Cyn said, honeyboy. Like a yearbook from a girls’ school, only in color. Nothing he’s ever gonna go to jail for. One thing, though...”
“What?” Rejji asked.
“No blacks, no Asians, no Latinas—hell, no fucking Indians. Not one. For this boy, all-white was all right.”
“That clinches it,” I said. “He’s not the one.”
“These two are a prize pair of dirtbags,” Wolfe said, handing over a couple of mug shots.
They looked identical, right down to where their bullet heads just inched past the “74” on the vertical measuring bar. Nice specimens. Square-jawed, heavy cheekbones, not a lot of nose or forehead. Prominent trapezius ridges sloped from their thick necks to their wide shoulders. They even had the same expressions on their faces—barely blunted aggression, just a few hundred RPM short of redline.
“What did they go down for?” I asked her.
“They didn’t,” she said. “These are from the arrest. Never went to trial.”
“Wha
t were they charged with?”
“This time? Rape. Before that, Assault Two, Assault Three. That’s kind of their specialty.”
“They never went to trial? On any of all that?”
“They pled out to YO on some of them.”
“Some of them?” Youthful Offender status is usually a one-time present from the criminal-justice system.
“That’s right. Probation. And sealing.”
“No expungement?”
“They did get expungement, on the ones that were dismissed.”
“And this one, for rape, it was dismissed?”
“That one, too.”
“But don’t the cops have to destroy the photos and prints when the court—?”
“Please!” she said scornfully.
“Sorry. You have anything else?”
“Oh, there’s a lot. The boys were impressive athletes in high school. Brett was a wrestler; Bryce played lacrosse. Despite marginal transcripts, they each did very well on the SATs. They went to school upstate, on full scholarships.”
“And...?”
“On their records, it says they withdrew. Truth, they were kicked out.”
“You know what for?”
“They’re rapists,” she said, cold and flat. “But even with all those muscles, they’d still rather use drugs.”
“Date-rape drugs?”
“Oh yes. More than once, at that same school. Nothing ever proven. What they could prove was steroids. Using and selling.”
“That was...back in ’97. They get popped any since then?”
“Sure. They’re hired muscle; it goes with the job description. But the victims not pressing charges, that’s one of the job benefits. So getting busted, it’s only a minor inconvenience. Never lasts long.”
“Are they mobbed up?”
“Not that I could see. And they don’t seem to have any ambition to go into business for themselves. They may be twins, but they’re not exactly the Krays.”
“You have an address?” I said, getting to it.
“All the paper we could find in New York directs to the same place, out on the Island. But that’s their parents’ house—they haven’t lived there for years.”
“Damn.”
“They’re in Jersey now, I’m pretty sure.”
“How come?”
“Because I know where they work,” Wolfe said, handing me a piece of paper.
“Is it a mob joint?”
“You mean, does a family own it?” Giovanni replied. “I don’t know; I can find out. But that’s territory, down there. I mean, it’s mapped territory. So a family man may own it, or may have a piece of it. Or not. But no matter what, I promise you this much: to operate a strip joint anywhere within a hundred miles of Trenton, they’re paying tolls.”
“I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
“I can handle it.”
“See, that’s the thing,” I told him. “It can’t be handled in front. If I work this right, there’s no reason for anyone to know I’ve even been there. It only has to be handled if the wheels come off. That happens, I just want to be sure these guys aren’t able to call in any heavy artillery.”
“Give me a couple of days,” he said.
“They’re not with this Vision guy,” I said. “No reason why they wouldn’t talk to me, especially for some cash.”
“Why not ask boss?” Mama said.
“I’m not...”
“Ask their boss. For permission. Boss say, You talk,” she said, pointing her finger at me, “they talk, right?”
“You’re right, Mama. Only the person who’d have to ask their boss, Giovanni, he can’t come into this.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t feature those ’roid boys, bro,” the Prof said. “Motherfuckers would have to mainline Valium to get calm enough to reason with.”
“I’m still saying, why not?” I insisted. “They’re not master criminals. Or even angle-players. Just muscle-for-hire. I’m not interested in anything they did. All I want is where to find the guy who makes the tapes.”
“It sounds so reasonable, mahn,” Clarence said. “But my father’s wisdom is a good guide. If they do not...accept you, you must be prepared.”
“Take Max,” Mama said, settling it.
“Max, Giovanni. Giovanni, Max.”
Giovanni extended his hand. Max shook it briefly, bowing his head a fraction of an inch.
“I heard about him,” he said to me. “Max the Silent.”
“He’s in the room,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I thought he...you couldn’t hear,” he said, turning to Max.
Max pointed to his lips, then folded his hands into a book, scanned it with his eyes.
“You read lips!” Giovanni said—delighted, like a kid who just got a present.
Max nodded.
“It’s better to gesture while you speak,” I said. “And you have to watch Max to hear what he’s saying, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said to me, impatient. To Max: “You’re a karate expert, right?” stepping into a boxer’s crouch.
Max held his thumb and forefinger close together.
“He says ‘a little bit,’” I told Giovanni.
“I can see what’s he saying, Burke.” Giovanni took a coin from his pocket, held it out on his open palm. He made a gesture of snatching the coin away with his other hand, then extended the coin hand toward Max.
Max’s lips twisted. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, held it to one eye, and mimed cranking a reel with the other.
“Only in the movies!” Giovanni laughed. “I love it. Your friend is some—”
The coin jumped off Giovanni’s palm into the air. Max opened his fist. The coin was inside.
“Christ! How’d he—” Giovanni caught himself, turned to Max, said, “How’d you do it?”
Max handed the coin back to Giovanni. Opened his hand, tapped the palm. Giovanni nodded, replaced the coin in his own hand. Max moved his right hand, slow-motion, so we could see the middle two fingers welded together. He swept them beneath Giovanni’s palm, touched the underside of that same hand.... The coin jumped up like his palm was a trampoline. Max’s hand flashed, and the coin vanished again.
“Madonna mi!” Giovanni said. “I never saw it. Not any of it.”
“You never would,” I told him.
The joint was a free-standing one-story building in the middle of a partly paved lot. It looked like a warehouse wrapped in neon.
“He’s inside,” I said to Giovanni. I pointed toward the back, nodded a “Yes” so that Max could hear, too. “It’s him. Or, I should say, one of them. They’ve got him working the curtain.”
“Lowlife skell,” Giovanni muttered.
“We don’t care what he is,” I told him. “Just what he knows, remember?”
“I’m ice,” Giovanni assured me.
I turned to Max. Made a gesture of driving a ridge hand to the neck, shook my head “No.”
Max nodded, patiently. We’d been over it a dozen times. One thing I learned as a kid—even if you hit someone a good shot, especially with something like a tire iron, you never know the result. One guy gets a headache; another one gets dead.
“It’s a little after two,” I said to Giovanni. “I don’t know how long they keep a place like this open, but I figure we’re in for a wait.”
“Yeah. Maybe some of those hillbillies like to stay up late, catch the Grand Slam at Denny’s before work.”
“We’re not that far from Trenton here.”
“Far enough,” Giovanni said. “This is like something out of fucking Kansas, all those farms and crap.”
“If he lives close by, we’d have a lot of trouble tailing him, especially if it’s off one of those back roads we passed on the way in. I don’t want to spook him. So we’re going with the original plan.”
“You know what he’s driving?”
“No. But there won’t be many left in the parking lot after closin
g time.”
“I don’t see why we don’t just stick a pistola in his mouth. He’s a sex freak, right? I never heard of one of them that was a hard guy.”
“You watch too many movies,” I told him.
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ve known baby-rapers who were cold as winter marble, and twice as hard. Stereotypes can get you killed. We’re trying cash first.”
“You’re the driver,” Giovanni said, settling down in the back seat to wait.
I passed some of the time by taking a set of Velcro-backed New Mexico plates out of the trunk. They were handcrafted fakes—two different sets cut down the middle, with the mismatched halves epoxied back together. I slapped them over the New York ones that matched the Plymouth’s registration, using a simple loop. I didn’t expect anyone to be reading the numbers, but their sunburst-yellow color might stick in someone’s memory bank, give us a little edge.
My watch said four-nineteen when the back door opened and he came out. By then, there were only three cars in the rear lot: a black Lincoln Navigator; a turquoise Thunderbird, one of the new ones; and a red Mustang drop-top resting on huge chromed rims.
“Three to one on the Mustang,” I said to Giovanni.
“Go!” he whispered.
The target was wearing a waist-length white satin jacket, carrying what looked like a gym bag in one hand. I opened the door to the Plymouth. The dome light didn’t go on. I slipped out, leaving the door slightly ajar.
I hadn’t gone ten yards when I heard a sharp chirp! The Mustang sprang to life like something in a horror movie: the headlights snapped on, then the engine turned over. Was someone waiting for—? His arm was extended, holding something. Sure. One of those remote starter devices they sell to people in real cold climates, so they can warm up their cars without leaving the house.
I moved sideways until I was coming from behind him, as if I’d been inside the club all along.
“Mr. Heltman...?” I called out, in a respectful tone.
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