No Such Thing as a Free Ride (18 page)

“The sooner you answer me the sooner you can go back to sleep.”

“Or, I’ve got an idea. I could just hang up.”

“Bobby, please.”

“Okay, yeah. She was white.”

“One more thing… could you tell if she’d recently given birth?”

I waited a beat but he didn’t answer. “Bobby?”

I could hear the rustling of sheets as he sat up in bed, the sleep gone from his voice. “What are you? Psychic?”

“So that’s a yes?” My mind scrambled to understand the possible implications of this news.

“Autoposy revealed she had recently given birth.”

“So what happened to the baby?”

“That’s the million dollar question. But you still haven’t answered mine. How did you know this girl had been pregnant? I never discussed that with you.”

“Believe it or not, it was a lucky guess. What was the official ruling on cause of death?”

“Drug overdose. Listen, you’re obviously onto something. What is it?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let me work it out a little more and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Good point.” I hung up and went back to my notes.

Okay, so what do I have here? Four dead, white, teenage prostitutes, all within a span of approximately a year and a half. Three died of what was assumed to be self inflicted overdose. Two had recently given birth before their demise. One died of complications of a miscarriage, in which drugs were thought to be involved. All Jane Doe’s.

What was the common link in their lives… the something or someone that tied them together? They weren’t even all found in the same city. And even if they were, it’s a big city, and with the thousands of kids that run away each year, there’s bound to be some overlap in their personal stories.

I vowed to turn my notes over to Bobby and let him decide if I was on the right track or just making a mountain out of a molehill. In the mean time, my first priority was finding Star, and as much as I hated the thought, I had some unfinished business with an urban cowboy named Little Red.

*****

I woke up on the couch at 6:00 a.m., soaked in sweat, despite the living room air conditioner running full blast. My dreams were disjointed and frightening, filled with mixed metaphors; Bunny, wearing a cowboy hat and a red bandana, chasing me with a saber. Then Little Red appeared in Dr. Denton’s carrying a bucket of lye.

I called Fran as soon as it was reasonable. “Do you still have that dream interpretation book?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“What does it mean if you dream about pimps wearing footie pajamas?”

“It means you’re seriously disturbed. And speaking of disturbing things, it’s my last La Maze class tonight. Are you available?”

“Absolutely.”

“Damn.”

“Franny, I said I’m totally available. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to go,” she whined.

“Why not?” I entered the bathroom and begin squirting toothpaste on my brush.

Fran heaved a gigantic sigh. “I have to do
everything.
I’ve been carting this baby around for almost nine months and do you think anyone’s offered to take her off my hands? Frankly, I’m sick of it. Can’t you just go
for
me tonight?”

“You do know you’re making absolutely no sense at all, right?”

“Humor me. I’m really scared, Bran.”

“I know you are, sweetie. I’ll pick you up at 7:00.”

*****

I was supposed to do a live spot at the zoo, but just as we set up, three orangutans escaped their habitat and one ran off with the camera, so that left me free for the rest of the day. Heading back to the car I crossed off “go to work” on my “to do” list and moved on to item number two. “Check up on Little Red.” Oy.

Some of that checking up entailed actual contact with the man. I skipped over that happy thought for the moment and concentrated on what I could do from a safe distance.

I sat in the car and punched in Mike’s number. For some reason, he didn’t sound that happy to hear from me.

“Do you think we’ll ever have a conversation that doesn’t begin with, ‘Yo, Mike, can you do me a favor?’” he grumbled.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. But as a matter of fact, I have two reasons for calling. Okay, so one
is
to ask you a favor, but the other is to tell you that I spoke to Janine, and she’d be happy to go out with you.”

“She would? Really?”

“Really. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you her number.”

“Wow. That’s great. So, what kind of stuff does she like to do?”

“Well, she’s into pole dancing and—”

“You’re kidding me,” he said, all excited.

“Yeah, I am. Sorry to disappoint you. Listen, Janine’s terrific. All you have to remember is she used to wait tables so she hates cheap tippers and you’re good to go. Now, about that other reason I called. There’s a pimp who goes by the name of Little Red. He got arrested the other day and taken to the South Street station.”

“I’m not even gonna touch how you know about this character,” Mike said. “What do you need?”

“Whatever you can tell me. His real name, for starters, any prior arrests, home address if you’ve got it.”

“You’re not planning on paying this guy a visit, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my stock phrase meaning ‘you’re right on target.’

“And before you ask me if DiCarlo knows, I don’t need his permission to do my job… but it’s probably best not to mention it.”

I could tell he was grinning. Mike’s got the best smile around. “You are something else. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

Okay, then. Next stop South Street Gym.

As I pulled into the lot I spied DiCarlo’s Mustang parked under the shade of an ancient Maple tree.
What’s he doing here in the middle of a work day? He must be buffing up for his big date on Saturday night
. The thought depressed me. Then the guilt set in.
Why am I acting like this? I should be happy for Bobby. He deserves some fun in his life. I am a terrible person.

I was really getting down on myself. I needed some unconditional mother’s love. I fished out my phone and called Carla.

“I’m a jealous, bratty bitch,” I announced, hoping she would contradict me.

“Eh, it’s part of your charm.”

Total acceptance. Even better.
“Love you, Carla.”

“Love you too, Hon.”

It was hotter inside the gym than it was outside. Massive fans blew the fetid air around but did nothing to cool things off. Bobby sat shirtless in the corner of a ring, sweat glistening off his perfect abs. I recognized his sparring partner, Gordie Hankins. Gordie’s a cop who used to work out of the same precinct as Bobby, until he was transferred out. He was at the South Street police station the day I got hauled in.

I made a u-turn a hair too late. “Yo, Brandy,” DiCarlo yelled. “Wait up. I want to talk to you.”

“Forgot my gym bag in the car,” I mumbled, not looking up.

“It’s in your hand. C’mere.”

Gordie climbed out of the ring and approached me. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

“I’m very famous. You’ve seen me on tv.” Head bent, I started to walk toward Bobby. Gordie put out a hand to stop me.

“Nah, that’s not it. I mean I’ve seen you in person. Recently.” Suddenly, recognition lit up his eyes and he grinned like he’d just won the Lottery.

“Long story,” I told him. “I was working undercover that day. I’m a reporter. Honest!”

Thankfully, Gordie got a call which saved me from further explanation.

Jimmy the Rat was nowhere in sight so Bobby offered to spar with me. We worked out mostly in silence with Bobby giving me the occasional tip. I was serious about learning how to defend myself and according to DiCarlo it showed.

“You’ve improved,” he said, afterwards. “You’re anticipating moves and you’re packing some real muscle with your punches now.”

“Thanks. Listen, Bobby. I have a favor to ask you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I need to find out if someone got on a flight from Philly to L.A. and if they caught the return flight as well. I’m following a lead on that girl, Star and, well, it would really help me out if you could do this for me.”

“Sure.”

“Just like that? No lecture? No argument?”

“Look, Bran, I know I haven’t said it, but I think what you’re doing for this kid is pretty terrific. So I’ll do what I can to help you out.”

“Wow. Thanks,” I said, handing him the flight information.

I waited while he showered and changed, emerging from the lockers ten minutes later, wearing ragged jeans and an old beat up tee shirt, but still managing to appear like he’d just stepped off a Gucci billboard.

“Bran, I want to finish our conversation, but I just got a call from Sophia’s daycare and I’ve got to go pick her up. Seems she ate some crayons and the burnt orange didn’t agree with her.”

“That’s okay. I’ll catch you later.” I watched him as he swung his gym bag over this shoulder.

“You’re staring at me, Sweetheart. How come?”

“You’re a
dad
, Bobby. Does that ever like totally freak you out?”

“Every day of my life.” He flashed me a grin. “But she’s worth every freakin’ minute of it.”

On my way out of the gym, Mike called me back. “I got the info you wanted. Are you sure you want to mess with this dude? He’s got a rap sheet a “Lifer” would be proud of.”

My stomach dropped. “I don’t think we’ll be dating any time soon.”

“Man, Brandy, I don’t feel good about this. Why do you need to get in touch with this scumbag, anyway?”

“I have a network marketing opportunity he may be interested in. C’mon, Mike. Just give me an address and we can put this conversation behind us. Oh, and if you could email me a copy of his rap sheet, I’d appreciate it.”

“Anything else?” he said, only I don’t think the offer was all that sincere, because he was talking through his teeth.

“No, that should do it.”

“Henry Michael Lyons,” Mike read aloud. “Last known address is 3700 North Camac Street. Look, be careful. He’s been busted on everything from weapons charges to voluntary manslaughter. And he’s slicker than a greased pig. A lot of the major charges don’t end up sticking. Witnesses tend to disappear.”

“I’ll be careful, Mike. Thanks.”

Okay, so now what? Do I come clean with Little Red? Tell him I’m a reporter and that he’s my number one suspect in the case of the missing teenage hooker… Maybe I could get away with that if I was Geraldo Rivera. Oh well, I’ll think up a plan on the fly. I work better under pressure anyway.

I got out my map book and checked the address. Then I took out my phone. If I was descending into Hell, I wanted someone who knew his way around to be my tour guide.

“Alphonso?” I said when he picked up. “It’s Brandy. Are you busy?”

He told me to meet him outside of Ming’s Pool Hall, located in one of the dicier neighborhoods on Kensington Av enue. “Don’t get out of the car. Keep your doors and windows locked. Call me when you get here and if you happen to catch anybody on the street in the middle of a business transaction, don’t make eye contact!”

“Isn’t there like a
Starbucks
we could meet at or something?”

“Let me tell you how this works, Sweetcakes. The person askin’ the favor ain’t allowed to be picky.”

“Oh,
fine
. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Alphonso is like the bad-ass older cousin you’d see every once in a while at family functions. The kid you’d sneak off with for a smoke or a ride on his motorcycle. The one who’d take you to the edge of trouble, but wouldn’t let you fall off the cliff and risk the wrath of your mother, or in his case, Nick.

Hanging out with Alphonso I felt protected (due, in part, to the nine-millimeter Glock he packed into the waistband of his pants) and a little bit bad-ass cool by association. That self-delusion was quickly dispelled the moment I pulled up in front of the pool hall in my parents’ hand-me-down burgundy Le Sabre.

Alphonso stepped out of the doorway and approached the car, leaning in through the passenger seat window. “Get out,” he said. “We’ll take my car.”

“I can drive, no problem,” I told him, unlocking the door.

He peered at me over his designer shades. “It is to me.”

“What? My car’s not good enough for you?”

He didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he walked around to the driver’s side and pulled open the door and waited for me to climb out.

“I don’t want to leave it here,” I said, looking around at a car parked on the other side of the street. It no longer had a back window… or a front one either… or any tires. “It might get stolen.”

“Trust me, it won’t.”

I would have been insulted except that I was secretly hoping it
would
get stolen.

“You’re a car snob,” I said, climbing into his charcoal grey H 3 Alpha Hummer. I ran my hand over the customized leather interior. “Jeez, what do you do for Nick that you can afford a set of wheels like this?”

Alphonso grinned. “This and that.”

I settled back into the seat. “So, speaking of Nick—”

“Were we?” He started the engine and pulled onto the road. Lines of mid-day traffic parted like the Red Sea to accommodate him.

“I’m pretty sure we were. Listen, is it my imagination or does Nick seem a little different to you since he’s gotten back from…”

I waited for him to supply the location. He didn’t.

“So what do you think?” I prodded. “Has he been acting different?”

Alphonso gave me a long look. It started to make me nervous.

“I like you, Sweetcakes, so I’m gonna give it to you straight. I work for Santiago and I consider him a friend. But I’m not under any illusions about the guy and you shouldn’t be either.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean? Can’t anybody just answer a question without being so damn cryptic… hey, did my uncle put you up to this?” Frankie wasn’t exactly president of the Nicholas Santiago Fan Club. At least not where it involved me.

Alphonso laughed, showing even, white teeth. “Don’t get me wrong. Santiago’s a great guy. But if you think you’re going to get close to him, you’d better think again. The man trusts nobody. Not with the details of his life, anyway. And even if I knew what was up, I wouldn’t be talkin’ to you about it. I like my job and I value living, know what I mean?”