Nikki considered it awhile and said, “I suppose there’s a cheesy clothing store around here somewhere.”
“There ya go,” he said way too loudly. “You’ll make a great hooker.” Nikki didn’t have to turn to know the whole coffee shop was staring at her.
Rook rented a room for the afternoon at the Four Diamonds, which he observed was the only way that number of diamonds would ever be attributed to that establishment. It smelled of strong disinfectant and boasted unlimited ice, no doubt to go along with the unlimited nicotine burns dappling the bathroom counter and the nightstand. Nikki changed into her new clothes, and while she slathered on the makeup she had chosen, Rook called from the bedroom, “I feel like we’re in Pretty Woman. I’d take you right now in the bubble bath except the cockroaches are still using it.”
“What do you think?” asked Heat. She stepped out of the bathroom and posed, showing off her heavy makeup, hoop earrings, leopard-print Uggs knockoffs, ripped tights, and a lime green plastic raincoat.
Rook appraised her from his seat on the corner of the bed and said, “So, this is what your life has come to?”
Out on the sidewalk Nikki kept her distance from the other working girls up the block, giving them time to get used to her. Some of the women were territorial, seeing Nikki as an income threat, and gave her a hard time or moved along, wary of the undercover cop vibe that still came through the mascara and false lashes. Most were cordial, though. Introducing themselves, asking how she was getting by. Then, when she had their confidence, Nikki said she was looking for a lost BFF she was worried sick about. Out came the picture, which was studied and passed around, but got no response.
The hardest part was fending off the johns. Just telling them as they drove by — some whistling or patting the roof of their cars with open palms — that she wasn’t interested didn’t suffice. A few times she had to duck into the lobby of the Four Diamonds, and that took care of it. Once, though, a persistent guy, an intense construction worker who said he was off shift and had a big drive to Long Island, double-parked his pickup and followed her into the lobby. There, Rook appeared, announcing congratulations, that he was on the pilot of a new reality show, To Catch a John. Problem solved.
Nikki was standing on a corner with a few of the girls when her phone buzzed. It was Deputy Commissioner Yarborough. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, Phyllis, never a bad time for you.” Nikki was glad this wasn’t Skype.
“Just wanted to let you know I had them run Sergio Torres through the database. Sorry, but no hits beyond what appears on his rap sheet.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for trying.” It was hard to mask her disappointment.
Yarborough said, “Doesn’t seem like Torres is your problem, anyway. Saw on the morning report you had a visit from the bomb squad.” After Heat filled her in briefly on those events, the deputy commissioner asked, “Any idea who your perp is?”
“Not by name,” said Heat. “He’s a John Doe I’ve had my eye on in the Graf case. In fact, he’s got a distinctive tattoo we ran through your RTCC but came up empty.”
“I’ll find the request and have them put it through again. And to make sure we turn over all the stones, I’ll supervise the run myself.”
Nikki was just thanking her when a horn blared and a carload of drunk frat boys shouted, “Aw-woo! Hey baby! Yo, skank!”
“Where the hell are you, Nikki?”
“Oh, just hanging with some friends. We’re watching Jerry Springer.”
About four o’clock, when Nikki was discouraged, cold, and ready to pack it in, a young woman with a kind face and a greening bruise below one eye looked at the picture and said, “That’s Shayna. Doesn’t do her justice, but that’s Shayn, for sure.” Nikki turned the folded page over and asked if she recognized the man with her, the one with the coiled snake tattoo on his bicep. She didn’t. But she had seen her friend recently. Shayna Watson was rooming at the Rounders Motel in Chelsea.
Sometimes they run, sometimes they hide, sometimes they just don’t answer the door, hoping you’ll go away. Shayna Watson slid the chain, opened up, and invited them in. She seemed drained of emotion — or self-medicated, Nikki couldn’t determine which. But when the hollow-eyed woman moved some laundry off the bed so they could sit, Heat was relieved that this didn’t look like it would be a fight.
Rook let himself fade into the background, leaving it to Nikki to connect. Mindful of her fragility, Heat spoke gently and steered away from any information that might spook her. For instance, omitting that this was part of a murder investigation entirely. Shayna Watson didn’t need those particulars to tell Nikki two simple things. “You are in no trouble of any kind, Shayna, OK? I’m just looking for this man,” she said, holding out the picture. “I’d like to know his name and where I can find him, then we’ll be on our way.”
“He’s a bad dude,” she said in a distant voice. “When Andrea... she’s my roommate... left for Amsterdam, he made me steal her keys to the bondage place she works at. That’s why I ditched my apartment. And I liked that place. I had to hide from him. Oh, God...” Her face paled and her brow knotted with worry as she surveyed the door, like she was playing out a private nightmare. “You found me. Do you think he will now?”
Nikki gave her a reassuring look. “Not if you help me find him first.”
On their cab ride to Hunts Point, Heat decided this was not a mission to bluff through with mascara and spunk. She called the police. Protocol would have been to phone the Forty-first Precinct, since that’s whose turf they were heading to. But that would require some awkward explanation of her departmental status unless she wanted to lie and pretend she was still officially on the job. So the police she called was Roach.
“The guy in the photo with the snake tattoo is named Tucker Steljess, no middle name yet,” said Heat. She spelled the last name so they could run it and see if any priors or last known addresses spit out. “Rook and I are getting off the Bruckner now on our way to the address we got for him. It’s a motorcycle repair shop on Hunts Point Avenue where it crosses Spofford. Don’t have the street number, but you can dig it out.”
“Will do,” said Ochoa. “And you’re quite the good citizen to phone in this tip.”
“Hey, I support our local police,” Nikki said. “Speaking of which, might do a courtesy heads-up to the Four-one.”
“Raley’s on it now. What’s your plan?”
“I’m two minutes from the location. Good citizen that I am, Rook and I are going to observe until you arrive. Don’t want this SOB slipping away.”
Ochoa said, “Just watch your back, citizen. Let the pros handle this.”
The winter darkness fell early, and from their window seats at Golden Dip’d Donuts, Heat and Rook watched lights shutting off across the street, in the back of the repair shop’s garage. Then they saw movement. Wife beaters were out of season, so they couldn’t get a positive ID of the snake tatt under the long-sleeved waffle tee, but Nikki’s heart double pinged when the big man pulled down the corrugated rolling door and she eyeballed Tucker Steljess.
“He’s going to leave,” said Rook.
Heat speed-dialed Ochoa. “What’s your ETA?”
“We’re just clearing the RFK toll plaza.”
“Subject’s getting ready to go on the move,” she said.
“We’ve already put it out on the air,” replied Ochoa. “You should see units any minute.”
When she hung up, Rook was already out the door, crossing the street. She cursed to herself and caught up with him outside the rolling door. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Slowing him down. You can’t, he knows you. I can go in and play lost driver looking for directions. Or better yet, mid-life orthodontist seeking advice about Harleys versus BMWs.”