The next morning, Alan went down to the lobby for a continental breakfast then returned to his room to make a few calls. First on his list was Marie's Doggy Day Care Center.
"How's my mutt doing?" he said to Marie.
"She's doing fine, Alan. I just fed her a few minutes ago and she seems as happy as a clam."
"Great, I was hoping you'd say that. Funny thing is, I miss the girl already."
"Oh, and she misses you, too! When I walked back there, you could tell that she was expecting you to be there with me. But like I told you, they are very resilient. She will wait for you patiently until you come back to pick her up."
"Okay. Well thanks, Marie. I still don't know when I'll be back but I'll let you know as soon as I do."
"No problem, Alan. How was your flight?"
"Fine. It's getting really cold here, though. How's the weather there?"
"Cold and rainy. I think you chose a good time to go because they're predicting one to two inches of rain by tonight."
"Hmm, sorry I'm missing that. Probably heading this way with my luck. Well, thanks again Marie for looking after Pan. See you later."
Alan ended the call, located Charlie Ling in his contacts and hit the send button.
"What's going on my man?" Charlie said after picking up.
"Just thought I'd see how you're doing with that website trace. Any luck?"
"Afraid not. I've been sort of delayed by something that came up so I haven't had a lot of time to work on that, to be quite honest. But I'm still hacking away at it, no pun intended.
"Okay. I'm in New York, believe it or not. Following up on the e-mail lead you gave me. Your superb work actually made a case for me, and for that I am grateful."
"Pleased to hear that—always happy to be of service."
"Anyway, let me know if you have any luck on that website. I'll be here for at least another day."
"Will do, buddy. Hey, give my regards to Broadway!"
Alan grinned. "Right. Later, dude."
He wasn't sure why, but he was in an excellent mood today. He realized that his negativity yesterday had been the culmination of fatigue and his doubts about this case, which was to be expected given the circumstances. But today was another day and he couldn't wait to get started.
He had thought out how he would go about locating Ellen if she were indeed anywhere to be found in the vicinity of Steinway Street. He would first canvas some of the nearby shops, businesses to see if anyone could recall seeing a woman fitting the description of her that Bannon had given him. If that didn't pan out or give him any leads, he would simply go into Stokley's Pub just like any other patron might do and order a beer. He would bend the ear of the bartender and try to learn something that way. Chat it up with some of the customers as well. Hopefully something would break.
Alan had one more call to make before he shoved off. He located Jonathon Bannon's cell phone number in his saved messages and gave him a ring.
"Bannon," he answered.
"Hello Mr. Bannon, it's Alan Swansea. How are you doing?"
"Swansea? Oh, yeah, the detective from Ohio. I'm fine Mr. Swansea. What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I'm just calling to see if by any chance you've seen the woman we were talking about on Monday. I'm in New York now following up on the insurance claim and thought I'd check in with you before I began my search."
"Oh, I see. No, I'm afraid I haven't seen her again. Of course, I've been working Brooklyn all week and haven't been in the office much more than to check in. The rest of my days have been spent in Park Slope."
"Oh, I see. Well, it was worth a shot. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Bannon."
"No problem. Like I told you before, I'll help any way I can to help you catch that hit-and-run s.o.b."
"That's good to know—I appreciate it. Thanks again and have a nice day, sir."
"Same to you."
Alan wasn't surprised Bannon hadn't seen her again but he'd learned long ago that once in a while you got lucky with these things. Not to be the case here, though unfortunately.
He got up and put on his coat, stuck his iPhone into a pocket and eyed his camera bag on the dressing bureau, recalling that he had failed to get any shots the day before. He went over, slung the bag over his shoulder and would make sure not to make the same mistake today. He always liked to chronicle any pertinent locales and progress he made on a case, if for no other reason because doing so had come in quite handy in the past. Alan was a visual person by nature and relied more on seeing things than anything else in his work.
When he stepped out onto the street and looked up at the Empire State Building, he recalled the time he had taken Julie to the observatory. It had been at night and he'd brought his camera along to get some shots of the city. It had been windier than hell—much like it was now—and he could remember trying to steady his camera on the ledge in the gale-like conditions, Julie laughing at him all the while for his insistence on getting some decent shots. She always had a way of making him feel comfortable laughing at himself—something he had always had a problem doing in the past. He had always taken life too seriously, he felt, until he met Julie. The girl had somehow managed to lighten him up and bring out the best in him.
Alan shook off the memories the best he could, wishing to stay focused on the case. It was at rare times like this he could think about Julie in a more positive light and view it as a blessing to have had her in his life for what little time he had. He thought of the saying, it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all and knew exactly what those words meant whenever he thought about Julie. It didn't make "moving on" any easier, however, and that was a cold hard fact.
He reached the subway station and checked his watch—it was 11:30. He knew that Stokley's Pub opened at noon so he would have ample time to wander around Steinway Street and ask around about Ellen. He wanted to go to the bar fairly early since there would most likely be a different crowd earlier in the day than at night. He needed to squeeze all of the information he could out of the patrons and help at the bar in order have a better shot at finding Ellen. Maybe she just worked the mornings for all he knew. He couldn't afford to waste time on this and he had a feeling that the longer waited, the least likely it would be to track her down.
After he got out at the Steinway street station, Alan took his camera out of the bag while ascending the stairs to the street. He crossed the street and turned around long enough to get a quick shot of the subway stop then continued walking north. He hadn't walked this side of the street the day before so he would begin his canvassing here. After taking a wide-angle shot of the street, he put his camera away and headed into Mayne's Deli. The place wasn't very crowded so he walked up to the counter and waited his turn then ordered a black coffee. A stocky guy in his mid-forties took his money and a moment later handed Alan his beverage.
Alan said, "I'm wondering if you've ever seen a blonde woman around, early to mid-twenties, decent looking but pretty thin."
The guy deadpanned, "Every day."
Alan laughed. "I guess I should add that she looks like a hooker."
"Oh, I see—so you're looking for a blonde hooker!" he said, a little too loud. Alan turned around and smiled weakly at the elderly woman standing behind him in line.
"I'm not looking for her for that reason. This woman is involved in an insurance investigation and her name is Ellen. She has recently been spotted in this neighborhood," Alan said, not much louder than a whisper.
"Can't say that I have seen anyone fitting that description. Sorry. Next."
"Thanks," Alan said before turning around to leave. New Yorkers, he thought. Why do they always have to be such wise guys?
He passed by a medical supply store and a restaurant before coming up to a Hookah Bar. Maybe his odds would be better here. He went through the door and was immediately assaulted with pungent smoke so thick you cut it with a knife. He saw a couple of patrons sitting at a table sharing a water pipe and went over to them.<
br />
"Say, I'm looking for a young lady, blonde hair in her twenties wearing skimpy clothes who hangs out in the neighborhood. Either of you ever seen her by any chance?"
The kid with a beard who looked like a young Al Pacino said, "Nope, I don't think so."
"How about you?" he asked the other one.
"Is she skinny with long hair?"
"Yeah, almost anorexic-looking" Alan replied.
"Sounds like this hooker I saw last week. She was hanging around some bar further up Steinway. Had this really short mini-skirt on—I mean, really short! Stiletto heels, too."
"That's her—have you seen her any other times?"
"Nah, just that one time. The only reason I remember is because she stood out like a sore thumb. You know, there's not usually whores hanging around here like that—at least, not so obviously, anyway."
"Hmm. Well, thanks a lot for your help," Alan said.
The Pacino clone took a long hit of what smelled exactly like pot and said, "No problem, dude."
As he left the bar, Alan was all but convinced that Ellen was anything but a fixture in the neighborhood. So far, she had only been spotted on two different occasions by Bannon and one of those times had probably been the same day that the Hookah Bar guy had seen her outside Stokley's Pub.
He decided to try one more place before giving it up. He went into the Starbucks where Ellen had used Bannon's laptop and looked around to see if any of the people looked familiar from the day before. He figured if he recognized somebody, they could probably be a regular customer who may have seen Ellen around at one time or another. Discovering nobody fitting that criterion, he decided to cut to the chase and approached a man in a suit who was busy eating a sandwich while keyboarding on his Dell notebook.
"Excuse me, I'm wondering if you come here often. The reason I'm asking is that I'm from out of town and trying to locate an old acquaintance that lives in the area. I've lost her phone number."
The man looked at Alan skeptically before replying. "I work across the street at the furniture store and come here practically every day. What does this person look like?"
"She has long blonde hair and is quite thin but pretty. She's around twenty or so. I'll be honest with you—she may actually look sort of like a hooker because she has always worn really, uh, rather racy clothes. Sound like anyone you've seen around here?"
The man's eyes widened. "I think I know exactly who you're talking about. And you're right, she does look like a hooker. I've only seen her once, though. Last week— must have been Wednesday or Thursday—I saw her leaving this Starbucks as a matter of fact. I was crossing the street at lunch and noticed her come out the door almost at a run. I got the feeling they had ran her off, to be quite honest."
"And you're sure that's the only time you've seen her?"
The man nodded his head. "Yeah, I'm afraid so. Sorry I couldn't be any more help to you."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
Alan felt his optimism dwindling away. This sighting all but confirmed that Ellen was not a regular in the neighborhood after all and his odds of finding her seemed slim to none. His only shot would be to get lucky at the pub. Hopefully, somebody there might be able to point him in some direction. Maybe someone knew of another area she was working in the city.
He checked the time and saw that it was 12:16. He left the Starbucks and headed north toward Stokley's Pub. He reached the intersection a block south of the place and crossed Steinway again. As he approached the faded blue and white canopy, he kept his eyes peeled for anyone coming or going. A minute later, he went up to the door and entered.
The place was incredibly dark considering the time of day. The heavily tinted front windows blocked out most of the ambient daylight while the lights inside were turned down very low. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes nearly gagged him as he stood there for a moment to get his bearings.
To his left was a long bar running along the wall with about a dozen bar stools, two of which occupied by a couple of patrons. To his right and beyond the end of the bar were several wooden tables scattered about, all unoccupied except for one. At the far end of the pub he saw a pinball machine and a jukebox set up against the wall. The place was dead quiet except for the feint chatter of the two men sitting at the table.
The eyes of the bartender and the pair at the bar were on him. Alan could feel that vibe you get whenever you enter a roomful of strangers—sort of like they're thinking, "who the hell are you and what the hell do you want here?"
In an effort to quell their staring eyes, Alan headed directly to the bar and sat down beside the closest man. He could feel the tension as he smiled at the bartender, who came over and looked at him with steely blue eyes.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Um, a Michelob—bottle, if you've got it," Alan replied. The bartender looked so inhospitable and sinister that Alan almost expected him to pull a gun out from somewhere and shoot him.
The bartender nodded with a grunt, then headed toward the cooler. Alan stole a glance at his neighbors at the bar: both men who appeared to be in their fifties. Although it was hard to see what they were wearing, Alan thought their clothes made them look out of time for lack of a better descriptor. Like they had just jumped off the boat from some Slavic country.
"Here," the bartender said, handing the beer to Alan. "Four bucks."
Alan pulled out his wallet and slapped a five on the bar. "Thanks."
The bartender carried the cash over to the register. Alan sipped his Michelob, cringing at the taste of beer this early in the day. He had never been much of a day drinker. He stared straight ahead as he sipped, observing the liquor selection and praying that somebody would start speaking to break the silence.
Moments later, the men beside him finally started talking. They spoke in a foreign language that Alan thought sounded like Russian or a similar dialect. He had the feeling that they weren't speaking in English on purpose, just so he wouldn't be privy to what they were saying. He could be wrong, but he didn't think so.
Just a vibe.
He grabbed his beer, stood up and headed toward the back of the bar. The still silence of the place was so excruciating that he felt the need to liven it up a bit. He walked past the pair of men sitting at the table on the way to the jukebox. They looked a little friendlier than the ones at the bar and cast him a cursory glance as he passed by.
The jukebox was an older model, probably one of the very first ones to play CD's in fact. The thing was all beat up and Alan wondered if it even worked as he searched the titles, which ranged from Glen Miller to the Oak Ridge Boys to Abba. There was more country than rock so he felt thankful to settle on China Grove by the Doobies. After digging a couple of quarters out of his pocket, he deposited them into the slot and punched E-47. Miraculously, the thing fired up, fetched his disk and played Tom Johnston's opening chords with a half decent fidelity.
Alan hoped that things would liven up to a level that he could comfortably strike up a conversation with somebody here. He hadn't planned on the place being this foreboding and that had put him off for the moment. It was difficult enough asking strangers a bunch of questions anyway but this crew had made it seem out of the question thus far.
He strode over to the pinball machine and fished out his last quarter. The thing took fifty cents so he decided to go to the bar for change. As soon as he reached the bar, the entrance door opened and a man came in, carrying a newspaper. He was well-dressed, forty-ish and looked like he belonged on Wall Street. He walked past Alan, nodded at the bartender then took a seat at the far end of the bar.
Alan stood by until the bartender went over to the newcomer to take his order. He heard the man say something softly under his breath in English to the bartender, just above a whisper. A moment later, he ordered a gin and tonic in a normal voice. Alan waited until he served the man his drink then summoned the bartender.
"Change, please," he said, laying a dollar bill on the bar. The bartender took the dollar over
to the register and returned with four quarters.
"Thanks."
As he made his way back to the pinball machine, Alan saw someone emerge from the rear corner of the bar where the restrooms were located. The man passed by him and was grinning to himself as he proceeded toward the front of the bar. But instead of sitting down at a table or going over to the bar, the guy kept walking toward the entrance and left the place.
Alan didn't think much of it at the time as he stood at the pinball machine and deposited his fifty cents. He watched as the lights of the machine flashed and the electronic beeps and rings clashed with the chorus of China Grove. The appearance of the well-dressed man lightened things up somewhat and he was beginning to feel more comfortable about asking some questions. He pulled back the ball shooter knob and let go. As he worked the flippers, he noticed one of the men from the table go over to the bar. After his ball was sucked into the hole, he cued up the next ball and let it go.
Alan chocked up over fifteen thousand points on his second ball. The man returned from the bar and headed toward the restroom as Alan cued up the next ball. He took a good-sized swig from his Michelob before shooting again. He was actually enjoying the pinball game—it had been years since he'd played one.
His third ball was basically a gutter ball and Alan could feel his frustration. He had always been the competitive type and didn't like losing, even to himself. He took a gulp of Mich and sent the fourth ball flying, flipping the flippers like crazy and nearly tilting the machine. He picked up another forty thousand points before the ball finally rolled down the hole.
He was on a roll.
He played the last ball too hard and tilted the machine. For a moment he just stood there staring blankly at the frozen score and the TILT icon all lit up in red. Shit!
He drained the last of his beer easily. He realized that he needed to take a leak so he headed for the restroom. He noticed that the other man who had been sitting at the table with his friend was gone. Alan glanced up toward the front of the bar but didn't see him. He must have left without him noticing in the excitement of the pinball game.
Alan rounded the corner into the restroom area and entered the men's room. The moment he stepped inside, he realized that there wasn't a soul inside the tiny place. He had expected to see the other man here.
So where the hell is he? he thought. Had he left the bar without him noticing? No, that wasn't possible. There was no way he could have missed him returning from the restroom because he had been facing that direction while playing pinball.
The women's restroom? Surely not. Alan took a look at how filthy the men's room was and reconsidered. Maybe the guy had opted for a cleaner restroom. Alan relieved himself, keeping his ear cocked for any noises outside. Then he washed his hands and went out the door.
He glanced around then tried the doorknob of the women's restroom. It turned so he went ahead and pushed the door open. He stooped down and saw that there wasn't anyone in the single stall then closed the door.
Alan turned around and stared at a third door that was located in the adjacent wall—he'd noticed it earlier and assumed that it led to the remainder of the first floor. Perhaps there might be a kitchen on the other side, although he didn't recall seeing a menu of any sort at the bar.
Kitchen or not, something seemed very fishy. First, one guy leaves the bar after having been in the restroom without so much as a glance or goodbye to the bartender. Not particularly unusual but a little suspicious. Then the guy who was sitting with his friend evidently goes to the restroom but never returns. And in the meantime, his friend has disappeared as well.
Deduction: at least one of the men, possibly two of them, went through this door instead of to the bathroom.
So what was behind Door Number Three: could it possibly lead to Ellen?
Alan stepped over and held his ear to the door. He couldn't hear a thing. Gently, he turned the knob and cracked the door open. He still didn't hear anything so he opened the door a foot or so and peered around it. He saw a small kitchen and a storage area. Beyond that he saw an open area continuing to the right but was unable to see any further. It apparently led to the remainder of the ground floor space with perhaps an access way to the upper floors of the building.
He swung the door open another few inches and stepped over the threshold. In an instant, he ran to the back of the space and took a quick look around the corner. All he saw was more storage area and a doorway covered by a piece of heavy green fabric that acted as a curtain. He ran over quickly to pull the curtain aside and saw a stairway leading upstairs shrouded in darkness except for a tiny wall lamp glowing weakly at the top of the landing. He strained his ears but couldn't hear a thing. He closed the curtain, turned around and ran back to the door and out into the foyer.
Alan went back into the restroom, realizing that he was going to have to change his game plan. He had seen enough to know that he didn't need to ask any questions—in fact, doing so would only make the bartender even more suspicious than he probably already was of him.
Something covert was definitely going on here and he had a good hunch what it was: Stokley's Pub was a front for a flophouse—
A flophouse in which Ellen, hopefully, was the star attraction.
Now he had to figure out a way to meet her, and that wasn't going to be easy. Not with the way the place seemed to be operating.
Somehow he needed to find out if there was a shift change in the evening. He also needed to allay any suspicions the barkeeper had of him in order to follow through with his plan.
He removed his camera bag and opened up one of the side compartments. He fished out an electronic device that was actually a small voice recorder no bigger than a bottle cap with an adhesive strip attached to one side of it.
He took out his wallet and removed a dollar bill and a business card. He stuck the business card into his jacket breast pocket and then pressed one of the tiny buttons on the recorder. Cupping the recorder in his left palm, he left the restroom.
He headed directly over to the bar where the well-dressed man was still sitting conversing with the bartender while grasping the dollar bill between his thumb and forefinger.
"Can I have some more change?" he asked the bartender.
The man looked annoyed as he took the dollar from Alan and went over to the register.
"Getting chilly out there, eh?" he said to the well-dressed guy, gesturing toward the street. He slipped his hand in under the bar and stuck the recorder to the underside of the counter.
"Indeed, they are predicting a cold rainy night tonight," the man replied.
The bartender returned and handed the change to Alan.
"Thanks."
He nodded at them both, turned and headed toward the jukebox. He spotted Daydream Believer by the Monkees, selected it then went over to the pinball machine. As he resumed playing another game, he glanced back toward the bar to see if the bartender and the man had resumed chatting. They had. There had been an almost conspiratorial nature to the way the men had chatted and occasionally eyed Alan ever since the man had shown up. He had to find out what the big mystery was.
A few minutes later, Alan finished the pinball game and smiled to himself. A hundred and thirty thousand points—not bad for a rusty dude.
He decided it was time to make his spiel.
He went back over to where the bartender and men were conversing and pulled out the business card from his pocket. He handed it over to the bartender.
"Have you by any chance considered getting some new games for your pub, sir? I've noticed that all you have is that old pinball machine. Adding a couple of more current, contemporary video arcade game may be just the thing you need to increase your business. Something like Mortal Kombat, Tetris or The Simpsons. They're all three hot games now."
The bartender looked at him with a mixture of surprise and contempt. Alan knew the man was now probably relieved to find out that he wasn't an undercover cop but at the same time dreaded a s
ales pitch from a traveling salesman.
"No and I'm not interested," he replied flatly.
Alan smiled. "Are you the owner by any chance? If not, perhaps the owner would be interested in some new machines. Oh, by the way. My name is Aaron Weldman. And you would be?"
"Not interested. And the owner isn't interested either."
He handed the card back to Alan.
"Very well, sorry to have troubled you," Alan said, forcing a smile and pulling the recorder off from under the counter at the same time.
The two men sitting at the other end of the bar were chuckling to themselves as Alan headed for the door.
Once Alan was outside, he walked toward the intersection and waited for the light to change then crossed Steinway. He stood at the corner long enough to take out his Nikon and fire off a couple quick shots of Stokley's pub in wide-angle and telephoto mode. Then he returned to the same diner he had gone to the evening before when he noticed that the window booth was vacant. He ordered a black coffee and a hamburger, keeping a close eye on the bar across the street.
While waiting for his hamburger, he plugged his iPhone earbuds into the voice recorder, clicked the tiny rewind button and pressed PLAY. He heard the crackling sounds of the device as he carried it over to the bar and then his own voice asking for some change. There was more crackling as he attached the recorder to the bar and he made his comment about the weather and heard the man's reply. Then there was a moment of silence before the well-dressed guy spoke again.
"You sure he isn't a cop? Why else would he come here and stay this long, Tommy?"
"I never said there wasn't any chance of it—I just doubt it. Maybe he's just some guy who's heard about Natasha but doesn't know how to go about lining up some time with her. It's happened before."
"Yeah, I guess that's possible. I still wouldn't trust him, though. He seems a little too nosey if you ask me."
"What the fuck do you care, Mike? It won't be your ass if we get busted."
"You're forgetting the whore, Tommy—I don't want to lose out on such a great piece of ass!"
Both men laughed then there were a few moments of silence. The well-dressed guy named Mike spoke again.
"How much longer till that little shit comes down? I've got to get back to work before 2:00."
"He's got about ten more minutes."
"Fuck it. Go ahead and take this now, Tommy. I'm going up the second I see him."
Alan could hear a rustling sound and assumed that the guy was taking cash out of his pocket and handing it over to Tommy.
"It's going up to sixty bucks starting next week, by the way," he heard Tommy say.
"No fucking way!"
"Yes fucking way. Viktor is raising rates because he wants to expand the business. I'm just telling you what he told me—and he's the boss."
"That fucking Ruskie is a goddamn crook! Can't trust those bastards any further than you can throw 'em."
"I'll be sure to tell him you said that when he relieves me tonight."
"Christ, I'm just kidding, Tommy! The last thing I want is the goddamn Russian Mafia going after my family!"
"Shut-up, here he comes again," Tommy hissed.
"Have you by any chance ever considered getting some new games for your pub, sir? I've noticed . . ."
Alan listened to the rest of his arcade game pitch then put the voice recorder away.
He was absolutely elated. He had gotten even more than he had hoped for on the recording. Not only did it confirm his suspicions about the place being a flophouse but there was compelling evidence that could be used to prove it to the authorities. The actual payment for prostitution services was clearly evident and documented beyond a reasonable doubt.
But who was Natasha? Could that be the street name for Ellen? Or did this mean that Ellen had been replaced with another girl? The answer was moot—even if Ellen wasn't up there, this Natasha girl possibly knew where he could find her.
He now was certain what his next move was going to be.
His hamburger arrived at the same moment he spotted the man coming out of Stokley's Pub—
The Collector Page 25
