Kylie parked in front of the Nineteenth Precinct, ran upstairs, ditched the glamour-girl dress and heels, and came back wearing pants, a T-shirt, a jacket, and flats. On anyone else it might look mannish. On her, it looked fantastic.
She got behind the wheel. “Now we’re headed west,” she said just in case McMaster had any doubt which one of them was in command.
Fairway Market is a New York success story. It started out as a small produce store on the West Side back in the 1930s and has expanded to a chain of upscale supermarkets that caters to millions across the tristate area.
Their store in Harlem is in a sketchy neighborhood, but there’s plenty of secure parking, so it’s a magnet for high-end shoppers looking for specialty foods and quality produce.
And because the store was open till eleven p.m., the busy lot was a good place to dump a stolen truck.
Chuck Dryden was waiting. “You people certainly have me running around tonight,” he said.
“You can thank us for the overtime later,” Kylie said. “What have you got?”
He walked us to the rear of the box truck. The road case was in the back. “Blood in the case, blood on the floor,” Dryden said. “I just got here, so it will take me a while to see if it matches up with the bloody chip we found in the dressing room. But you love to leap to conclusions, Detective MacDonald, so feel free to make assumptions at will.”
“So what you’re saying, Dr. Dryden, is that you’re ninety-nine percent sure it’s Erin’s blood,” Kylie said.
Dryden laughed and looked away. He loved it when she toyed with him.
“How about prints, hair, DNA?” she said.
“In due time, Detective. However, there are traces of pink glitter in the case. And if you recall, she was wearing a shimmering pink top in the video.”
“So now you’re a hundred percent sure that this is the vehicle the kidnapper used,” Kylie said.
“Not yet, but clearly you are.”
“Chuck, you’re killing me here. How long do I have to wait before I get something conclusive?”
“Several hours before I can give you anything definitive,” Dryden said. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you talk to that uniformed officer, the one standing next to that squad car?”
“What’s he got?” Kylie asked.
For the second time that night Dryden gave her that I-know-more-than-you grin. “He’s got an eyewitness in the back seat.”
CHAPTER 12
I SIGNALED FOR the officer to step away from the car so we could talk. He introduced himself.
“Mike Koulermos with the Two Six. Your witness is Venetia Jones.” He handed me her New York State ID card. “She’s a pross. Been at it for years. Knows the game. Never gives us a hard time when we round them up. Her pimp is a weasel named Edgy Randolph, but he won’t show his face while we’re here.”
“What did she see?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” Koulermos said. “She won’t tell me. I was canvassing the area and asked her if she saw anybody get out of that white truck. She said yes. I said, ‘What did you see?’ and she says, ‘Opportunity.’ Whatever she knows, she’s saving it for someone with clout.”
“Which means she thinks she’s got something good, and she wants to barter,” I said.
“I think she knows she’s got something good,” Koulermos said. “The word is out that Erin Easton was abducted.”
“Bring her over, and let’s find out.”
The cop went back to the squad car, and I turned to Kylie. “You want me to take this?” It was more of a statement than a question. Kylie’s batting average interviewing hookers was hovering somewhere around .000.
“Good idea. They all hate me.”
“Don’t take it personally. They just respond better to male authority figures.” I turned to McMaster. “You’re male, but you’ve got no authority, so let me do the talking.”
He nodded. He was lucky to be along for the ride, and he knew it.
Venetia Jones stepped out of the squad car wearing a purple cocktail dress and fuck-me pumps. Prostitutes in tight short shorts and fishnet stockings are from an era gone by; the women today dress like they’re going out for an evening of clubbing.
Her ID card said she was thirty-four, but up close she looked a lot older. She’d probably been on the streets for half her life, and the hazards of her trade had taken their toll. I studied her face and looked into her eyes. I could see the mileage and the battle scars, but if there was ever a fire in her soul, it wasn’t there that night.
“The officer tells me you saw someone get out of that truck,” I said.
“Yeah. One male, one female, both white.”
“Can you describe the woman?”
“Downtown hair, fake-ass titties.”
“Come on, Venetia, I need more than that.”
She smiled. “I know what you need, baby, but you gotta pay me to care.”
On the street, information is currency, and when a hooker has something she thinks a cop can use, she negotiates.
“Do you take gold?” I handed her my card with the gold detective shield on it. “It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. Call me if you’re ever in a jam. It’s good for one time only.”
She looked at the card and handed it back. “Sorry, Zach. I don’t need any juice down the road. I have an ongoing situation that needs tending to immediately. If you want to help me with that, we can talk.”
She was playing hardball. She knew she had what I wanted. “Tell me your situation, and we’ll take it from there,” I said.
“A few weeks ago I met this nice white boy at a bar. We hit it off, went to his hotel room, did a little partying, and he must have been exhausted, because he passed out cold.”
“Maybe it was something he drank,” I said.
“Well, he don’t pay me to fix him breakfast, so I pack up and leave him sprawled on the bed.”
“Define pack up,” I said.
She laughed. “You a damn smart cop. I was in a big hurry, and by accident his Rolex fell into my purse while I was gathering my things.”
“Did you run right back and return it?”
“I was gonna, but the next day the cops came down on me. Can you believe it? This pencil-dick rich boy is pressing charges against me, a poor working girl.”
“The married ones keep it quiet, so I’m guessing he doesn’t have a wife and kids,” I said.
“No—just a broom up his ass. Damn fool wants to make a whole federal case out of it. Now, if you know someone at the DA’s office who could make it go away, my memory just might come back, and I could tell you about them white folk who got out of that truck.”
“How about the Rolex? Can that come back too?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Zach, but hell, why not?”
“I have a friend at eighty Centre Street. If what you’ve got is good.”
“Baby, what I got is so good, you gonna tell me to keep the Rolex.” She took an iPhone out of her purse, tapped in her password, and pulled up a photo. I leaned over her left shoulder, and Kylie came around the other side. McMaster didn’t wait for an invitation. He poked his head above Kylie’s.