Smoke (8 page)

“You’re joking,” said Jesamyn. “This is huge.”

She stood at the edge of his faux wood and aluminum desk, as
Kepler leaned back in his gray vinyl swivel chair. Mount stood by the door, leaning against the jamb. Kepler looked at Jesamyn and gave her a small nod.

“The fact that you think it’s huge just underscores how little you have.
Two weeks ago
, it might have been huge.”

Matt and Jesamyn both stared at him. Jesamyn had a brief but vivid fantasy of throwing herself over the desk at his throat. Kepler stood and walked around his desk. There was a ketchup stain on his tie. His gray hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.

“So she got herself messed up on drugs, hooked up with some dealer, and she cashed in her bank account to buy crack,” said Kepler. “In a few weeks, she’ll show up in the system after a crack house sweep. Stranger things have happened.”

“No—” began Matt.

Kepler cut him off. “It doesn’t mean anything, Stenopolis. Except that someone gave her a ride to the bank.”

Mount looked like he was about to have a brain aneurysm; his neck was turning red.

“Okay,” said Jesamyn, trying to diffuse the tension that was rising in the room. “You have to let us run the plate at least.”

“It’s a partial plate and a vague description, which means you’ll get multiple hits. And then who’ll follow up on those?”

“We’ll put it on the back burner,” she bargained.

Kepler took a thick, heavy file from beside him and handed it to her with a sigh. “The way back burner,” he said.

She took the file from him. “Rosario Mendez,” she read.

“Missing woman from the projects on Avenue A. She’s eight months pregnant. Girlfriend, or ex, to hear him tell it, of Jorge Alonzo.”

“Latin Kings,” said Matt, recognizing the name. “He’s one of the big guys.”

“That’s right. The case belongs to Rosa and Wong, but they need all the help they can get. Go see one of them and make yourselves useful.” He nodded toward the file. “Those are some of the statements—family, friends, Kings.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Three days. The boyfriend has been cleared as a suspect. They’re looking at rival gangs.”

Kepler walked back behind his desk. “That’s it. Why are you still here?”

B
ack in the cube that contained both of their desks, Matt and Jesamyn sat silent. Jesamyn flipped through the file on Mendez. Matt stared at his laptop screen. He’d plugged in the partial description and plate number and was waiting for a hit. The system was slow for whatever reason and as he waited, Jesamyn saw his eyes drift up to the picture of Lily he kept over his desk. He looked sad; she felt for him.

“You don’t need to look at me like that,” he said, without turning to look at her.

“Like what?” she said, putting her eyes back on the page in front of her.

“Like I’m pathetic, pitiable.”

“Grow up, Mount. Seriously.”

The phone on his desk rang and he picked up while giving her a dirty look.

“Stenopolis,” he said gruffly. A pause. “You’re kidding. What does she want?” Another longer pause, then, “Uh, no. I’ll come down.” He hung up the phone.

“Guess who’s here?” he asked her.

“Who?”

“Lydia Strong,” he said, walking out the door. Jesamyn followed him with her eyes and listened to the thunder of his big feet on the stairs.

“Oh, brother,” she said out loud to no one.

Five

Y
ou really didn’t need to go out of your way like this, Ms. Strong,” Detective Stenopolis said, taking the CD from her. The precinct was busy for a Monday afternoon. Two uniformed officers were bringing in a couple of transvestite hookers, commonly known as she-males, dressed in platforms and micro-minis. They were making a point of being loud and belligerent, male voices coming out of smooth and heavily made-up faces. An older man was yelling at the young female officer at the desk about how his building on Avenue B, where he’d lived for nearly twenty years, was turning into a crack house. The phones never stopped ringing.

“Please, call me Lydia,” she said. “It was no trouble. Our email is down and I had to be in the area.”

Detective Stenopolis gave her a look that told Lydia he didn’t believe her. And she couldn’t really be offended by that because it was, of course, a bald-faced lie.

“Well, thanks. I appreciate your help,” he said, turning from her.

“Detective,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I was hoping we could talk a second.”

He turned back to her and she saw something funny in his face. She could swear that underneath those severe, dark features, there was a smile hiding. She sized him up: six-foot-six maybe, 250 pounds at least. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt under a leather jacket—calfskin by the feel of it. His shoes were dark brown Timberland hiking boots; they were the approximate size of Volkswagens. Most guys his size wouldn’t know how to dress, but he’d put himself together respectably enough.

“What do you want to talk about, Ms. Strong?” he said, sounding strained.

“Just wondering how much longer your supervisor is going to let you keep this case active,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes. “It has been two weeks. And it sounds to me like you have very little.”

Bull’s-eye, she thought when she saw his expression shift to surprise for a millisecond and then back to stern. But he didn’t say anything else, just stood there looking at her. She lifted her shoulders a little and held his eyes.

“I have the luxury of time and resources. And Lily is someone I care about,” she said. “I
will
be looking into what happened to her.”

“I can’t stop you,” he said. She saw it again, that smile in his eyes. Was he playing her?

“No, you can’t,” she said. “But you can
use
me.” He didn’t say anything so she pushed through for what she wanted. “Let me see your file.”

He laughed a little. “Due respect? I know
all
about you, Ms. Strong. This is a police matter. I’m not giving my file to a
writer
. If you’re interested in becoming a cop, there are some applications for the academy over by the door. You can pick one up on your way out.”

She smiled. He
was
playing her. “I don’t think so,” she said, moving a little closer to him. “Because then I’d be more worried about following rules and protecting my turf than finding out what happened to a missing young woman who needs all the help she can get.”

Though she didn’t see it on his face, she sensed that she’d hit him hard.

He held up the CD. “Thanks again for this,” he said, moving through the door, ducking just slightly to avoid hitting his head. Through the small glass window in the wood, he turned and looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read, and then disappeared.

She walked out of the precinct wondering how long it would be before he called her. She hoped it was soon; she’d decided that she liked Detective Stenopolis. But she didn’t really need him, she thought, as she slid into her black Mercedes SLK Kompressor and pulled up Fifth Street.

Jeffrey was already working on banking and credit card records, as well as cell phone activity, thanks to the agency’s many contacts
cultivated over the years. And she was already getting in touch with the people who knew Lily best. They were well on their way to peeling back the layers of her life, with or without Matt Stenopolis to help them.

Hardly anyone ever used directory assistance anymore. But Lydia had learned over the years that many more people than one might expect had listed telephone numbers. Especially young single people; they didn’t want to pay for unlisted service and they wanted to be easily found in case Miss or Mr. Right should come looking for them. Lydia remembered Lily’s best friend’s name only because she thought it was funny that they had both been named after flowers. Jasmine Karr was a first-year resident at NYU Medical Center. Lydia had left a message for Jasmine at her apartment as she headed toward the precinct and was surprised when Jasmine called back less than fifteen minutes later.

“She respects and admires you so much, Ms. Strong,” said Jasmine, her voice sounding far too young to belong to someone nearly thirty. “I’m so thankful that you’re taking an interest in this. I know she will be, too.”

“I was hoping you and I could get together. Talk a little bit about Lily and how things were with her before she disappeared.”

“Sure. Of course,” Jasmine said. “But I told the police everything I know.”

“I’m sure you did. But it would help me, if you don’t mind. I was also wondering if you have access to her apartment.”

“Actually, I do,” she said. “Her mother asked if I’d take care of her plants until she gets back. So I’ve been doing that and keeping things clean. I just want things to be nice when she comes home.”

They both knew that her statement was hopeful instead of certain. “I’m still at the hospital. I just called in for my messages. But my shift ends here at noon,” she said. “I could meet you at Lily’s around one if that works. Do you know the address?”

L
ydia made her way through crosstown traffic, thinking she should have taken the subway or walked instead of driving. But she’d been feeling lazy. And the subways held some very bad memories that hadn’t faded much in the past year. Eventually, she parked in a lot on Jane
Street and walked down Eighth toward Bank. The sidewalks were bustling with the usual mix of businesspeople breaking for lunch, mommies or nannies pushing prams, punks, homeless people, and peanut vendors. The day was cool, the air filled with city music and the smell of honey roasted nuts.

In the marble and oak pre-war lobby a young woman in a navy blue fleece pullover on top of green scrubs and a worn pair of Nikes was sitting on a plush leather chair, looking zoned out and exhausted.

“Jasmine?” asked Lydia.

“Yes, Ms. Strong. I recognize you from television.”

They shook hands and Jasmine told the doorman in his green uniform with gold piping on the sleeves that they wouldn’t be long. He looked up from a magazine and nodded as though he couldn’t care less.

“This is a nice building,” said Lydia, doing the calculations in her head. Depending on the size of the apartment she couldn’t imagine Lily paying any less than $1500 a month, even for a studio in a building like this one in such an astronomically high-rent district. She knew what a young newspaper reporter made. It wasn’t enough to live here.

“Yeah,” said Jasmine. “I’m still living with my parents up in Queens. I used to spend the night here with her a lot.”

“You haven’t been staying here recently?”

“Since she’s been missing? No. I—I just can’t.” She shook her head and Lydia saw tears gather in her eyes. “I can’t be here without her. It doesn’t seem right.”

Lydia nodded her understanding as the elevator reached the sixth floor and they stepped out into the hallway. There was tasteful burgundy carpeting and cream walls lined with sconce lighting.

“Did she have trouble affording this place?” asked Lydia as they walked into a spacious, sunlit one-bedroom apartment.

Jasmine shrugged. “I think her parents helped her out a little. Her mom was worried about her living in the city after college; they wanted her to be someplace safe. She was living in a railroad apartment on Avenue B after she moved out of the NYU dorms—until her parents came to visit. A month later she moved in here.”

Lydia sat on the futon while Jasmine sank onto an enormous blue velvet pillow lying on the varnished hardwood floor. A counter separated
the living space from a state-of-the-art kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances not unlike Lydia’s own. From where she sat, Lydia could see into a bedroom. There was a large king bed and a dresser that looked like the kind of stuff you buy at Ikea when you’re young and have no money. It comes in a box: a pile of wood, a bag of bolts and a set of indecipherable instructions.

“Detective Stenopolis said that Mickey and Lily weren’t getting along before he died,” said Lydia.

Jasmine pulled her legs into a full lotus position and nodded. “No, they weren’t. And it was weird because she worshipped him. But after he quit his job and moved up to Riverdale, things started to change. He became hard to reach, started being really short and distant with her. I don’t think she was mad as much as she was hurt. She thought it was the new girlfriend. Lily didn’t like her very much.”

“Maybe she was jealous?”

“Maybe a little—because she and Mickey had such a bond. He’d never really had a serious, serious girlfriend before. But she’s not really like that. Lily likes nice people, kind people, people with passion. She has good taste. I’ve always kind of felt that if Lily doesn’t like someone, then there’s usually a reason.”

Lydia nodded. “So why did Mickey move up there in the first place?”

“He was burned out. He’d made a killing, put a lot of money away. He had always had this dream of owning a coffee shop that was like a performance space at night, you know, small bands, poetry readings. He wanted to hang a different artist’s work on the walls every month. Something really artsy and cool, totally different from the insanity of his Wall Street job. So he went for it.”

“But it didn’t go well?”

“It seemed to, at first. We went up there after he opened. The space was beautiful, there seemed to be a good crowd. He was talking about applying for a liquor license.” She moved away a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “He seemed like the same old Mickey but happier. Less than six months later, he was dead.”

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” said Lydia, leaning forward.

“You know,” said Jasmine, looking down. “Since my residency started I have been so busy, so exhausted all the time, that I really didn’t
pay the kind of attention that I should have, I guess. I knew Lily was upset about the way Mickey was acting. She kept saying, ‘There’s something really weird going on with him.’ We talked about it but I guess I was only half-listening. Now when I think about those months, trying to figure things out, I feel like I only have small pieces.”