Obsessed, page 15
I asked, “Are you still in school?” I knew the answer already but wanted to see her reaction.
She looked down and away from me. After a moment she said, “I dropped out of NYU last year when I had two twenty-thousand-dollar months back-to-back. My parents have no clue.”
I said, “Most parents have no clue. About anything.”
Chapter 63
THE LONGER WE talked, the more Allie Pritz started to trust us. Terri Hernandez was the main reason. She was certainly more relatable to a young woman than I was.
The story Allie told us was similar to a lot of stories I’d heard about getting started in the escort business. When she was a sophomore at NYU, a girl Allie knew asked her if she wanted to make some extra cash. She explained that Allie would act as a young man’s date to a wedding, and that sex was not required. Allie attended the wedding, had a good time, and couldn’t believe she got paid nine hundred dollars. The girl who had told her about the job took a pretty hefty cut.
After that, Allie was in the rotation in The Girlfriend Experience. Eventually, she sort of took it over as other girls moved on or graduated.
Allie said, “All the girls who work in The Girlfriend Experience are terrified their parents will find out or the cops will decide to bust us. Either way, we keep a low profile.”
I repeated, “So none of the girls interact with one another.”
“Not that I know of. If I can’t take a job, I have one or two girls I can call, and I keep half of the fee. The other girls in The Girlfriend Experience do it the same way. It’s not like we’re a bricks-and-mortar business. It’s a loose alliance.”
“How many girls are involved?”
“I hand off assignments to about six girls. Sometimes there are as many as ten in the rotation. If a client asks for someone by name, I always send that tip directly to the girl. Otherwise, I sort of cherry-pick the better assignments.”
Terri Hernandez said in a low voice, “I’m not judging, and you’re not in trouble for it, but I was wondering if you, personally, ever have sex with your clients?”
Allie hesitated for a moment. “I’ve had sex with two clients. I didn’t charge them extra. It was mutual and consensual. I don’t know how any of the other girls do it. There was a girl in Midtown who made it a routine. She made so much money she moved to Florida and retired. At least that’s what she told us.”
Allie looked at me and said, “The main reason we limit contact with one another is that if someone gets arrested, they can’t expose everyone else. With a string of burner phones and a couple of shaky email addresses, I doubted we’d ever be caught.”
I said, “You might be overestimating your anonymity.”
Allie smiled for the first time during our interview. I could see why men wanted to be seen with her at events. She had a beautiful smile that caused her cheekbones to pop. Even in shorts and a T-shirt, she had a certain elegance about her.
I said, “Allie, we’re going to have to look at your burner phone to get some numbers off of it.”
She nodded, then said, “I also have them in a Word document. I keep all the numbers along with notes. You know, if someone was rude or rough. Maybe they tried to short me on the money. These are calls into the main burner phone. I don’t know what numbers the other girls might keep.”
I had her email me the numbers list as Terri took the burner phone. It wasn’t that we didn’t believe her. But it’s not a particularly professional cop who doesn’t verify information.
I opened up the list on my phone. This list was going to keep Walter Jackson busy as he tried to find who belonged to each number. Somewhere in this list, I was sure, was a killer.
I said, “Have you ever heard the name Kyle Banning?”
She shook her head. Allie seemed surprised this was all we wanted from her.
Terri said, “There’s something else you need to do.”
“Anything. Anything at all. I feel sick to my stomach that someone’s dead from our job. I feel responsible. I’ll do anything you want to help find this creep.”
Terri placed her hand gently on Allie’s shoulder. She said, “The first thing you need to do is call your parents. Be honest with them, at least about the fact that you’re not in college anymore.”
Allie nodded and looked away.
Chapter 64
AS SOON AS we were done interviewing Allie Pritz, and certain she wasn’t going to run, I told Terri I’d catch up with her later. I had an appointment I didn’t intend to miss. I braved the Midtown traffic and cringed when I found a lot that charged me fifty dollars to park. Since I wasn’t on city business, I had to pay out of my pocket.
I walked two blocks to the building I was looking for. I took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. The elevator doors opened into a hallway that led to the reception area for the Galt Fertility Clinic.
Sitting by herself in the corner was my beautiful wife, Mary Catherine. The smile that popped up on her face when she saw me made any traffic or parking hassles more than worth it. She hugged me even as I was sitting down in the comfortable, padded chair next to her.
Mary Catherine said, “Oh, Michael, I’m so happy you came. Forget what I said about wanting to do this on my own.”
“Why would you do this on your own? We’re a team. We tackle all of our problems together.”
She kissed me on the cheek. The only other people in the waiting room were a couple in their forties. The man nervously bounced his leg while the woman absently thumbed through a People magazine.
I was surprised how nervous I was. The idea of Mary Catherine going through fertility treatments to have a baby had been an abstract thought before coming here. This place made it seem real and immediate.
The clinic was immaculate and well decorated. There were photos of mothers with newborns. Magazines about babies and child-rearing filled every table. I noticed the medical office had more plants than most and less of that usual smell of chemical cleaning products.
I’d already been through initial screenings during which I had to give sperm samples and receive instruction on the numerous treatment methods for infertility. For some reason Mary Catherine had it in her head that these appointments were a drain on my time. I didn’t care if I was on the biggest, roughest serial-killer case of all time; there was nothing more important than the health of my family.
Maybe that was just my maturity finally kicking in. But a lot of it had to do with the death of my first wife, Maeve. She’d had cancer, and all treatment options had failed. We knew the prognosis was terminal. Even my NYPD bosses were sympathetic, and for eight months the family took the time we needed, essentially huddled together.
Then there was a crisis. A big-deal hostage situation in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. At the time, I was still an active hostage negotiator. The men holding the captives created several odd incidents and I was pivotal in dealing with them.
And the whole time I was needed on the job, Maeve lay in a hospital bed. She had needed me more. I should’ve stayed with my wife. And to this day I regret it.
I like to think I can admit when I make mistakes. You don’t make a mistake like that, then take lightly any kind of medical appointments of any kind.
A young man in scrubs came out and met us. He told us his name was Lyle and that he was assigned to us for the rest of our visit. I prayed this kind of personalized service was covered by insurance.
Lyle led us down the hallway to an examination room. He said, “Dr. Pilar will be in shortly.” Lyle looked at me and said, “Today, Dr. Pilar will be performing a sonohysterogram. It’s basically an ultrasound used to evaluate the uterus.” He kept looking at me like he was expecting a response.
I nodded and felt Mary Catherine’s grip on my hand tighten even as she kept a smile on her face. I resisted the urge to ask her if she was sure this was what she wanted to do. Mary Catherine had struggled with the decision for months. She had done her research and I respected her decision. But when I looked over at Mary Catherine, I felt like a coward compared to her. I took a deep breath, turned, and kissed my wife on the lips. It was about the only thing I could think to do.
Chapter 65
AFTER THE VISIT to the clinic and a coffee with Mary Catherine, I set about the rest of my workday. One of the things I managed to accomplish was to send Sergeant Kathy Figler, my friend in juvenile crimes, a copy of the security video that showed the bullies’ faces.
The sergeant said, “We’re doing what we can, Mike. But with the violent crime rate moving up so quickly, the mayor’s office is panicked. They got us out all over the city trying to figure out how to stem the violence.”
“I completely understand, Kathy. And I appreciate your compassion. Every cop I know is overprotective of their children. I guess it’s just because of what we see every day.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mike. You’re doing everything right. We’ll work it out eventually.”
It was with that vague, optimistic statement in my head that I settled down to a spectacular-looking dinner of enchiladas. Eddie and Mary Catherine had worked together to make an unusual and healthy version of the Mexican dish.
Even Seamus had made it to dinner tonight. We said a prayer, thanking God for all our many blessings. My grandfather added, “And let the youth of this city find love and compassion for one another.”
Jane quietly added, “And stop beating up my brothers.”
That smart remark earned a few snickers from her end of the table. It also garnered a glare from Seamus.
Then everyone dug in. Chrissy blurted out, “These don’t taste like the enchiladas from Taco Heaven.”
I was gratified to see Juliana step in and say, “That’s because they’re much better than anything Taco Heaven ever thought about making.” She looked at the beaming Eddie, then at Mary Catherine, and said, “You guys work so well together, you should open your own restaurant.”
I sat back and listened to the chatter. No one brought up any problems. No politics. Some sports talk among the boys. Brian told us about maintaining the air conditioners at a renovated office building in Midtown. I was pleased to see how enthusiastic he was about his job.
I decided I’d even have a glass of the Pinot Noir my grandfather had opened. Then my phone rang from the kitchen counter, where it sat charging. I glanced up sheepishly as every head at the table turned toward me. Mary Catherine looked sad that I had to answer the phone. My grandfather looked at me like I was breaking every possible social rule.
I was already angry at whoever was calling me now. It was like being awakened from a very pleasant dream. But any investigator will tell you that part of their job is being tied to their phone. At least a good investigator. Unless I am officially on vacation, and even then, probably out of the country, I always try to answer my phone. Or at the very least see who is calling.
I quickly excused myself and hustled over to check the name on the screen. Ronald Higdon. This time I would not add the Esquire. Great. I hesitated as it hit its fifth ring, highlighting the piano solo from “Layla.”
Then guilt overtook me and I snatched up the phone. I said in a clipped, low tone, “What do you need, Ronald?”
“Bennett!” Ronald shouted into the phone.
I could hear loud banging on the line. I said, “What’s that noise? Ronald, what’s going on?”
“I didn’t mean to cash it in so quick, but I need that favor you promised me.”
“Why? What’s happening?” Now I felt like I was shouting into the phone. Some of the kids turned and looked into the kitchen from the dining room table. I gave them a wave like everything was okay.
Ronald Higdon, Esquire, came back on the phone. “I need you to come to the shop. Two of the turds from Brooklyn are back. I don’t think they realize I’m inside. They’re trying to figure out how to break in. I have a padlock on the outside rear door. Just something extra. It’s stopped them for now.”
I could hear the panic in his voice. That was unusual for Ronald. He was the kind of guy who took advantage of panic, not one who displayed it.
Then he yelled in the phone, “Are you coming over to help or not?”
Chapter 66
AS SOON AS I hung up with Ronald Higdon, Esquire, I left my apartment and drove uptown much faster than I should have. It would’ve made more sense to hand this off to a patrol officer, who could be there in two minutes instead of my ten-minute ride. But Ronald was right: I’d made a promise that if he asked a favor, I’d deliver. In the big scheme of things, this wasn’t that tough of a favor.
Except for the fact that I was leaving my family. By the time I got back, the kitchen would be clean and there wouldn’t be an enchilada left. I don’t care how much food was made at any meal, with four adolescent boys, there was never anything left. Chrissy even had said she was worried she wouldn’t grow to her proper height because the boys never left enough food for her to eat. It wasn’t true, but I appreciated her sense of drama.
My tires squealed as I took the corner in Harlem and came to a stop directly in front of Higdon’s Pawn and Jewelry. The place was dark. I started to worry that I was too late. I had a vision of Ronald sprawled on the floor with his head cracked open.
I called him.
He answered with alarm in his harsh whisper. “Bennett, where the hell are you? The guys got bolt cutters from somewhere. They’re about to cut the outside padlock on my rear door.”
“I’m out front. Sit tight. I’ll check out the rear of the building.”
Ronald sounded scared. Who wouldn’t be? I jogged around the corner of the building and down to the rear alley, where I noticed a blue Cadillac XT5 parked. I could hear voices.
I peeked around the corner. A security light cast an eerie yellow haze across the alley. I saw three men huddled near the rear door to Higdon’s Pawn and Jewelry and recognized two of them from our earlier encounter at the pawnshop. The third man was older, in his early fifties. He was short and stout, with graying hair, and held a pair of bolt cutters. There was a baseball bat leaning against the wall of the building, but no one appeared to have any other weapon on them. That was good news for me. Guns led to hassles. Maybe the older guy with them had a calming effect.
If I’d had any common sense, I would’ve called for backup. I certainly would’ve felt more comfortable with a couple of uniformed patrol officers behind me. But sometimes you have to play the hand you’re dealt.
I stepped around the corner of the building. I purposely left my gun in its holster on my right hip, where my dark red, all-weather jacket covered it. I stood there for a full thirty seconds and still no one looked up to notice me. I decided they weren’t particularly effective burglars.
Finally, I cleared my throat and said in a loud voice, “Business hours are from nine to six.”
All three men’s heads twisted toward me. The two younger men recognized me instantly. Then I looked at the third man, his face now fully illuminated by the security light. I swallowed hard.
I recognized him too.
Chapter 67
I SAID, “YOU’RE Sal Ventri, aren’t you?”
The older man stood up straight. He brushed off his jacket like he was about to meet a fan asking for an autograph. Sal Ventri was hardly any sort of organized crime kingpin. He was well known and didn’t mind the publicity, but for the most part he was a low-level member of a peripheral organized crime family.
Then he said with a thick Brooklyn accent, “This ain’t none of your business. Who the hell are you?”
One of the punks said, “He’s a cop. He’s a friend of Ronald’s. We saw him the other day when the gang attacked us.”
I laughed out loud at that. “Is that what you told people? That a gang attacked you?” One of the younger men still had a black eye and a couple of cuts on his face. “I was there. It was mostly a woman who didn’t like their manners.”
Sal looked at me. “What kind of cop are you?”
“I like to think a pretty good cop.”
Sal was not in a bantering mood. “Like I said, this ain’t none of your business, smart guy.”
I cocked my head and didn’t say a word.
Sal looked irked. “What the hell you staring at?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve read articles about you. I like the one in Esquire when they called you the ‘Ivy League Don.’ What I’m saying is, you’re supposed to be educated. You went to Dartmouth, for God’s sake. Why do you talk like you dropped out of school in tenth grade and hang out on the street in Flatbush?”
Sal took a couple of steps toward me and lowered his voice. “Okay, we’ll play it your way. Please explain to me why you care if we solve our differences with Ronald privately.”
“Because privately doesn’t mean legally. You’re still burglarizing a structure. I’m sure if you found Ronald somewhere, you’d assault him. So, if you prefer, I can call a couple of patrol cars and let them deal with you.”
The younger men looked ready to bolt, but Sal had been threatened too many times. It had absolutely no effect on him. “We’re just collecting a debt. Trying to avoid clogging up the court system.” He took a few steps closer to me.
I started to tense for a fight.
Sal looked at me and said, “What’s your name?”
“Michael Bennett.”
He stopped in his tracks. Sal said, “The homicide detective?”
I just nodded.
He gave me a strange look but stayed in place. “You arrested Joe Paltrice for the hit on Jimmy Vale.”
“I did.” I turned my body slightly so I could draw and aim if I needed to. These guys held grudges that went on forever. They treated revenge like other people celebrated birthdays. They loved it. I wondered how Sal was related to Joe Paltrice. Without thinking, my hand ended up on the butt of my duty pistol.
