PROLOGUE
When Sergeant Louis Brady pulls up to the intersection of President and Nevins Streets in Brooklyn, he finds three unmarked Ford Escorts, practically his entire squad, haphazardly parked, nose to the curb. Already pissed, he parks his ancient Grand Marquis next to a fire hydrant and gets out. The contrast between the unusually crisp July air and the smoke-saturated interior of the Grand Marquis strikes him immediately, though he’s not sure which atmosphere he prefers. He does know that his Vice Unit is out of business in this neighborhood with no arrests to show for the effort. Lieutenant Cathcart will not be happy.
Brady holds up a hand when Patrolman Anthony Ribotta approaches. Brady actively dislikes Ribotta, a Holy Name Society type with a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror of whatever unit he happens to be driving. For cops like Ribotta, a simple prostitution sting can become a crusade to rid the world of impurities. Brady, by contrast, doesn’t hate, doesn’t even dislike the women and the transvestites he arrests. Take the man’s pay, do the man’s job, in twenty years comes the magic pension. Brady’s entire career is based on this understanding of his role in the war against crime.
Brady waves at the four cops standing by their units. “Tell those bastards to get back to work, Anthony. We can’t stay out here all night.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply but instead approaches the Ford with the woman in the back seat. She’s sitting forward on the seat with her knees raised on the seat back in front of her. Her already-short skirt has drifted up, probably when she backed into the car. Now it rides almost at her hips, while her green blouse, sheer to begin with, is unbuttoned far enough to reveal a lacy pink bra that Brady wishes he’d given to his wife last Christmas.
Brady stops a few feet from the car, the sight so wonderfully erotic he wants to prolong it as long as possible. He’s assuming the woman is too preoccupied with her situation —she’s not handcuffed, but the doors can’t be opened or the windows rolled down—to realize she’s being watched. But then she turns her head to him, turns it slowly, smiling a sly smile, her green eyes pushing past his baby blues, pushing right down into his brain. Does she find what she’s looking for? Brady doesn’t know as he watches her turn away, watches her settle onto the seat again, waiting now for whatever comes next.
Brady walks back to where Patrolman Ribotta leans against a streetlight. Ribotta’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a pocket. He’s stuffed a pack of cigarettes into the pocket, a nice touch for an undercover working a sting. Ribotta might be a model for Joe Workingman out for a touch of the strange before heading home to his wife.
“Alright, Anthony, let’s hear the story. And keep the bullshit to a minimum.”
Ribotta lifts his Yankees cap and runs his hand over his half-inch buzz cut, pushing a little wave of sweat front to back. Then he puts the hat back on and raises his chin, another habit Brady dislikes.
“It’s quiet, okay,” he begins. “Like so quiet I’m thinkin’ the whores know we’re out here and they’re working some other stroll. But then this woman”—he points to the woman in the back of the car— “she comes walkin’ down Nevins Street likes she owns it. Ass and tits, everything moving. I don’t know what to think because she doesn’t look exactly like a hooker. She’s too something I can’t put my finger on. But she marches straight up to where I’m standing, no hesitation, Sarge, and propositions me.”
“What’d she say?”
“I can’t remember exactly. Somethin’ about if I have a few hours, I could do her any way I want. Then she said something about eggs.”
“Eggs?”
“Yeah, like I could have her sunny-side up or poached or hard-boiled. Whatever I liked.”
Brady stares at his subordinate for a moment. Young, tall, good-looking, you dress him up right, he could be working an upscale narcotics sting in a Manhattan bar. “And what’d you do then?”
“My fucking job, Sarge? I asked her how much, but she wasn’t hearin’ it. Said I was enough reward for a weekday afternoon. I mean, what could I do? She don’t take money, she’s not a hooker, right? She has to state a price and name an act, this for that. But she wasn’t dumb enough to go there.” Here it comes. That’s what Brady’s thinking. What Patrolman Ribotta should have done is take the lady’s phone number and send her on her way. That’s exactly what Louis Brady would have done if anything that sweet fell into his lap, which it never has. The woman in the car, though not young, is a real stunner.
“So,” Ribotta continues, “I right away figured that something’s off here. In the middle of the afternoon you don’t proposition a complete stranger on a street known for its hookers unless you got a screw loose somewhere. I mean, she wasn’t drunk and didn’t look to be stoned, so I just figured she was crazy. And ya know what? I was right. I ran her through NCIC, and she’s been locked away twice, once at Creedmoor and once at Brooklyn Psychiatric.”
Brady asks two more questions. He wants to settle the facts in his mind. “But she never asked you for money? She never committed a crime?”
“No, Sarge, she’s not a hooker. Her name’s Carolyn Grand.” Brady spins on his heel. What Ribotta should have done is irrelevant. He, Louis Brady, has become responsible. It’s his baby now. He walks back to the Escort, opens the front door, flips the door lock button. Finally, he opens the back door and says, “Why don’t you come out of there, Ms. Grand?”
He says it nice, not threatening, because he doesn’t want to pack this woman off to the psych unit at Kings County Hospital for three days of observation. Not when the only crime she committed was being stupid enough to proposition Anthony Ribotta.
Carolyn Grand turns her head first. She’s smiling, her gaze frank and unafraid, even defiant. Of course, she has to turn her body, tuck in her knees and scoot along the edge of the seat to clear the seat back in front. Which pulls her skirt up even higher. Brady doesn’t turn away, but he’s not enjoying the show. He’s evaluating her readiness to assume responsibility for her own life. Then she does something totally unexpected.
“Please,” she says, extending a hand. “Help me out.”
Even as he shakes his head no, Brady takes her small hand and gently pulls her to her feet. He’s thinking that she’s definitely going to try to screw her way out of her predicament, but she freezes instead, her eyes blinking rapidly as her hands flutter over her cheeks and mouth. Then she buttons the front of her blouse and smooths the miniskirt over her thighs, her breathing shallow, her fingers trembling. Finally, her cheeks the red of an overripe tomato, her mouth so tight her lips vanish, she manages to speak a single, barely audible word.
“What?”
Brady shudders. It’s like glancing into a mirror only to find someone else glancing back. This mousey woman with the frightened eyes—her neck curled as though she’s afraid even to raise her chin, fingers picking at a button on her blouse— this is not the same woman who stared at him from the back seat of the unit, not the woman who slid toward him, her skirt rising to her hips. This is someone else, the transformation rapid enough to leave him with his mouth open.
So, it’s no good. No good at all. Brady’s first partner, the veteran who broke him in, had made it plain before he put their unit in gear.