Phantom Angel (16 page)

“I honestly have no idea.”

“This girl needs to be found,” he reiterated, his voice rising with urgency.

“Agreed,” Legs said. “Except I'm bringing her in, not you.”

“Why?” Cimoli demanded.

“Because she's a person of interest in my homicide investigation.”

“You're out of your league here, Lieutenant,” Cimoli told him. “Need I point out that this is
federal
?”

“Need I point out that I don't give a shit? And neither will Commissioner Feldman.” Legs reached for his cell. “Let's include him in your little pissing contest.”

Cimoli's gaze hardened. “So you've got major juice at One PP. I know that. You don't have to show off.”

“I'm not the one who's showing off,” Legs said as the cell rang in his hand. He peered at the screen and took the call. Listened. Listened some more. Then said, “Okay, right.” Rang off and got up out of his chair. “We just found the Navigator. They ditched it in Queens behind a beauty salon on Woodhaven Boulevard. I'd love to stay here and chat with you folks but I've got an actual job to do. You do yours, I'll do mine and as far as I'm concerned we have nothing more to talk about. Come on, Benji. Let's bounce.”

“We're not done here, Lieutenant!” Cimoli roared at him.

Legs came to a halt, his right knee jiggling, jiggling.

“Here's how I'm reading the situation,” Cimoli put forward. “This Beausoleil girl qualifies as a definite loose end. But she does not, in and of herself, constitute a concrete reason for us to hit the pause button on our raid. Let's say she turns out to be your Bryant Park shooter. So what? A Broadway producer lied to a young actress. The young actress got
really
pissed off at him. That's got nothing to do with us. Am I right, Lieutenant?”

Legs stood there thinking it over. Gino Cimoli waited anxiously for his reply. So did Jack Dytman and Sue Herrera. All three of them were gazing at him with expectant looks on their faces. It never fails to amaze me how
nobody
wants be the one who makes the final call. Fear of fucking up. Their lives are ruled by fear of fucking up.

“You want to know what I think?” Legs responded. “If I were you, what I'd be most concerned about right now is my murder investigation shining an unwanted light on your operation. Possibly even provoking the Minettas into cutting and running. My advice? Move in fast.”

Dytman studied him carefully. “Proceed as planned, you mean?”

“Absolutely. Don't even think about it. Just do it.” Legs let out an antsy sigh. “You need us for anything else?”

“You'll know it when we do,” Cimoli answered with a sneer.

And with that Legs and I took off.

“I see a genuine bromance brewing between you and Cimoli,” I said as we strode to the elevator. “Maybe even the three of you taking a trip to Barbados together—just you, Cimoli and Cimoli's ego.”

“He's standard government issue,” Legs said dismissively. “Big head, glass jaw. So, listen, I'll be humping the surveillance cams and forensics tonight. And I've got detectives paying courtesy calls on Matthew Puntigam and Hannah Lane, on Henderson Lebow and on Ira Gottfried. The NYPD's reaching out with kid gloves to answer any questions they might have about their near and dear friend Morrie Frankel.” He punched the button for the elevator—once, twice, three times. “This way they'll be feeling kindly toward the department when I have a go at them myself tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up at nine. I want you by my side. You down with that?”

“Totally. Does this mean we're working the case together?”

“No, it means you actually comprehend who's screwing who and I don't.”

“Sure sounds to me like we're working the case together.”

“We're not working the case together.”

“Whatever you say.” The elevator arrived. We got in. I watched him punch the
CLOSE DOOR
button once, twice, three times before the door finally closed and we started riding down. “Anything I can do to help before then?”

“Yeah. It would be fairly huge if you could find Jonquil Beausoleil.”

“Not a problem.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “You really think you can find her?”

“I found her once. I'll find her again.”

Actually, it turned out to be a whole lot easier than I thought. I didn't have to find Boso at all. She found me.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHE WAS SITTING
ON
Mom's office sofa in her cropped tank top and spandex shorts drinking a bottle of mineral water. Gus was sprawled next to her offering her his belly to rub, which he seldom does with a total stranger. Make that never.

Mom smiled at me warmly from behind her desk. “There, you see? I told you my Benji would be home soon.”

I gazed at Boso in silence as Mom's window air conditioner racketed away. Boso gazed back at me, her haunted blue eyes narrowing.

It was dusk by now. I'd moved the Brougham from the garage near Lincoln Center to the one around the corner on Amsterdam where we usually keep it. I'd removed my Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment and tucked it into my daypack.

“Boso and I were just having a very interesting conversation about anatomy,” Mom added. “Did you know that giraffes and mice have the same exact number of—”

“Nineteen. We have seven. Yeah, I'm fully up to speed on that.”

“I totally thought you were kidding me,” Boso said, her words tumbling out nervously. “When you told me your mother used to be a pole dancer, I mean. And Rita's
gorgeous
. I'd give anything to be that tall. I felt like a danged troll standing next to her.”

I looked at Mom. “And Rita is…?”

“Spending quality time with Myron.”

I sat in one of the chairs opposite Mom's desk. I looked at Miss Jonquil Beausoleil of Ruston, Louisiana. Looked at her gym bag that was on the floor next to the sofa. Looked back up at her and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too. How's your apple juice?”

“What are you doing here?” I repeated, louder this time.

“You gave me your card,” she said, stroking Gus's belly. “Remember?”

“I do remember. I also remember that you tore it into pieces. So let's try it one more time. What are you doing here?”

“I got scared when I heard that somebody shot Morrie,” she confessed, swallowing.

“Where were you when it happened?”

“At the big Ralph Lauren store on Madison Avenue. Two of the sales clerks were talking about it. It was all over the Internet, I guess. And I thought, like, what if I'm next?”

“Why would you be next?”

“I don't
know,
okay? But right after it happened one of Little Joe's flunkies, Paulie, called me on the disposable cell they gave me and he was, like, ‘Why are you so late getting back from the gym?' When I told him I was at the Ralph Lauren store he said, ‘You didn't tell us you were going there.' And I was, like, ‘What am I, a prisoner?' And he was, like, ‘Stay put. I'm sending someone to pick you up.' I told him I'd just catch a cab.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Came straight here.”

“Say hello to our new client, Bunny,” Mom said brightly.

“How did you get here?”

“Benji, why are you asking me so many—?”

“Did you take a cab?”

“I walked. Across Central Park, then up Central Park West to 103rd.”

“That's a mighty long walk in this heat.”

“I needed the exercise. You kidnapped me before I could get to the gym, remember? Besides, we don't call this hot where I come from. We call it picnic weather.”

“What did you do with your cell phone?”

“Tossed it in a trash can on Madison Avenue right away.”

“Smart girl,” Mom said approvingly.

“Don't use one of our landlines to call anyone. Don't send off any e-mails either. You've disappeared, got it? Mom, has anyone stopped by with a delivery since she got here? A messenger service, FedEx…?”

Mom shook her head. “The only other person who knows she's here is Rita.”

“Good.” I got up and began pacing around the office, my wheels spinning. “It so happens, Boso, that a whole lot of people want to know where you are. If we're going to stick our necks out for you then we have to know everything.”

She leveled her gaze at me. “Ask me anything you want to know.”

“Did you shoot Morrie Frankel?”

“No way,” she answered angrily. “Why would I?”

“Because you were furious with him. You told me you'd make him sorry. That could be construed as a threat.”

She sat there stroking Gus, who gazed up at her adoringly with his urine-colored eyes. “Sure, I was mad. But it's not like I'd shoot a guy just for lying to me.”

“Boso makes a good point there, Bunny,” Mom said. “If we went around shooting every man who lied to us then there wouldn't be any of you left on the planet.”

“Besides, I don't even have a gun. Don't like them.”

I snatched her gym bag from the floor. The one that was so heavy and clunky. I unzipped it.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

There was a change of clothes inside. A cropped tank top, yellow. A pair of spandex shorts, blue. And a thong, pink. Underneath the clothes lay a blue metal disc with handles. It was about the size of a dinner plate. The words
SMART BELLS LITE
were stamped on it.

“I use that for my ab crunches,” Boso said defensively. “What'd you think—that it was a gun?”

“Where were you at the time of the shooting?”

“At the Ralph Lauren store. I just told you.”

“Their security cams will clear you.
If
you're telling us the truth, that is. Did you buy anything while you were there?”

Boso shook her blond head.

“Do you still have the credit cards they gave you?”

“No, I tossed them when I tossed the phone,” she replied, glaring at me. “And you want to know something? I'm starting to think I made a real mistake coming here. You said you'd help me. You're not. You're just being a butthead.”

I sat back down, lacing my hands behind my head. “Maybe that's because I've just spent a fun-filled hour at twenty-six Federal Plaza being grilled by a U.S. attorney, an FBI agent and a lieutenant from the NYPD's Organized Crime task force. Maybe it's because at this exact minute they are in the process of raiding the Crown Towers.”

Boso let out a horrified gasp. “No way…”

“Yes way. Every single person who calls the Crown Towers home is being escorted out in handcuffs. Every single person except for
you
. If you'd gone home this afternoon they would be arresting you right about now for being an accessory to credit card fraud and identity theft. Those are federal crimes, in case you're keeping score. Except you didn't go home. Which is lucky for you but also, well, not so lucky. Do you have any idea how this will look to the Minettas?”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “Like I ratted them out or something?”

“Or something.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Meanwhile, the NYPD's top homicide investigator is looking for you in connection with Morrie's shooting. You are what's known as a person of interest. You are also what's known as serious bad news. What we ought to do is turn you over to him right this second.”

“So why don't you?” she demanded.

“I'm thinking about it.”

“Hey, don't knock yourself out on my account.”

“Hey, don't worry. I won't.”

“Can I get you another water, dear?” Mom offered her.

“No, I'm fine, Mrs. Golden.”

“Make it Abby, okay?” She eyed Boso appraisingly. “You must work out eighteen hours a day. My body never looked like yours. Not even in my heyday.”

“I spend a lot of time at it,” Boso acknowledged. “Last winter I was cheerleading
and
competing in gymnastics.”

“So you're a gymnast, too?”

“Well, yeah.” Boso sprang to her feet and proceeded to bend all the way over backward until her hands touched the floor behind her. Then she lifted her feet up into a full handstand and walked around Mom's office on her hands, nimble as can be, before she lowered herself back down to the floor with her legs stretched wa-a-ay out in a perfect split. “The webcam pervs just love this pose,” she said.

“I'm sure they do,” Mom said.

“Is it okay if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course, dear. It's right through that door.”

Boso leaped back up onto her feet and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

“What do you think, Mom?”

“I don't smell killer on her,” she answered quietly. “Just a little girl with big dreams who got caught in the crossfire. You?”

“Same. I'm thinking we should keep her here tonight. She can sleep upstairs in my place. I'll bunk on the sofa down here. And talk to Legs in the morning. See if I can cut her a deal.”

“Legs will come through for you if he can. But he can't help you if it's a federal rap.”

“I know that. We'll really have to thread the needle to keep her out of jail.”

“It may not be possible, Bunny.”

“I know that, too.”

Boso returned from the bathroom. “So why don't you?” she demanded, raising her stubborn chin at me.

“Why don't I what?”

“Call the law on me.”

“You're our client. We look out for our clients.”

She seemed taken aback. “I … can't pay you, you know.”

“Not a problem,” Mom assured her. “That happens sometimes. Have you had dinner?”

She hadn't. None of us had.