“No, Fort Lee is right over the George Washington Bridge… five minutes out of the city. The park is commemorative grounds.”
“Big?”
“Yes.”
“Populated?”
“During the day, yes. It’s a big place.”
Decker didn’t know where he was last night, but he knew he had been more than five minutes out of the city. More like an hour from Manhattan. One possible scenario: Chris had murdered Shaynda after Decker had seen her, then dumped her on his way back to his place. But why would Donatti make the drop somewhere so visible and so close to his digs? He was a pro; he didn’t like to advertise. Unless he was the type who’d do it for kicks-which really gave Decker something to worry about.
Jonathan cleared his throat over the line. “Cops were thinking that maybe”-he cleared his throat again-“maybe she’d been hiding out there. Lots of spaces to hide because it’s so big. Historical… goes back to revolutionary days. That’s why it’s so close to the bridge. Actually, they named the bridge after George Washington because it’s so close to Fort Lee.”
Jonathan was rambling. Decker interrupted him. “I’d like to talk to the Quinton Police again. It’s no problem for me to travel back upstate. If you don’t want to meet with me in public, give me a private place.”
“We could meet in the city. They want me to go to Jersey… to identify the body…” There was a deep, depressed sigh over the line. “Akiva, I don’t know if I’m up for it.”
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“They need a relative to identify-”
“I know, Jon. I’ve never met the girl.” The lie came out as smooth as tanning oil. “I just meant I’d accompany you for moral support.”
“That’s very generous of you.” An exhalation. “Thank you.”
“It’s fine, Jon. When do you want to go?”
“Someone was going to meet me at the… the morgue at about five.”
Four hours from now. Decker said, “That gives me enough time to come out to your neck of the woods. If you want to meet with me, fine. If not, we’ll talk later. I’ll go see the police. When you’re ready to leave upstate, let me know and I’ll follow you into New Jersey.”
Jonathan’s voice dropped to a whisper. There were tears in his words. “I think I might have messed up.”
Decker said, “I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure you did what you thought you had to do. Let’s meet in Quinton and talk about it.”
“Yes, that probably would be a good idea.” Now the anger was directed at himself. “It’s what I should have done this morning.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had hindsight,” Decker consoled him. “I know I’m persona non grata at the Liebers’. Tell me where we should meet.”
“I don’t know… my mind’s a blank.”
“Is there a Starbucks somewhere?”
“No, that wouldn’t be good. Someone might see us.”
“How about we just talk in the car?” Decker suggested. “With the windows fogged up, no one will be able to see inside.”
“No, that’s…” Another clearing of the throat. “The only thing that comes to mind is a Tattlers between Quinton and Bainberry.”
“Sounds good.”
No one spoke.
Jonathan said, “Are you familiar with the chain?”
“Nope.”
“It’s like a raunchy Hooters.”
“This is where you want to meet?”
“I’ve never been there, Akiva. It’s the sole place I can think of where it’s unlikely we’ll meet anyone from the community. And if by chance we do see someone there, believe me, he’ll pretend we don’t exist.”
Dividing Quinton and Bainberry were six miles of untamed woods holding hundreds of bare trees and scores of tangled brush. The border between the two townships was demarcated by the Bainberry mall, a series of connected brick buildings sitting in a slick pool of asphalt parking. Like an errant child, Tattlers sat by itself, unattached and off to the left. Jonathan was waiting for him, his eyes jumping behind his glasses when he saw Decker’s face.
The hostess, whose nametag said BUFFY, offered them a wide smile of capped teeth and a chest of cleavage and silicone. After seeing Donatti’s pieces of work, Decker delighted in seeing a healthy, clothed-albeit scantily-woman who was clearly out of her teens. Because the uniforms lacked a lot of fabric, the temperature inside “the gentlemen’s club” was turned up to sauna level, encouraging the patrons to remove jackets and ties. Someone wanted the guys to feel comfortable. It probably made for better tips.
Decker slipped the hostess a twenty. “A private booth in back.”
She averted her eyes-probably because he looked so disheveled-but still managed a sly smile. “Anyone in particular, sir?”
While he had out his wallet, he showed her his gold shield. “Anyone who can bring me a large pot of strong coffee and make herself scarce.”
Immediately, the woman was all business. “I think we can help you out, Detective. This way.”
She led them past the stage spectacle: three topless women in thongs gyrating under multicolored klieg lights. Men were hooting and catcalling, egging the girls to do lewder and lewder things. They were prevented from doing even ruder things by a sign that stated ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NO TOUCHING!
Jonathan looked away, but Decker took them in, his eyes moving up and down their perfect bodies. They were young, beautiful, and energetic. They probably made good money, more bucks than working on circuit boards or changing hospital bedpans. Not to mention all the attention they got. The scene was pure circus, lacking only the big top.
Not that Decker was offended or surprised. In a Donatti society that emphasized outcome rather than process, and stardom was worshiped above all, in a country where porn stars were trophies for rock stars, and people confessed to adultery and incest on national TV, well, then, why the hell not?
Except that Rina still ascribed to this outmoded concept of modesty as dated as Mayberry, USA. Over the last ten years, he guessed he had become an old-fashioned guy, and outmoded was just fine by him.
As requested, Buffy gave them a hidden booth in the corner, away from the flesh display, more like a peep show from where they were sitting.
“I’ll get you the coffee, Detective.”
And she did… right away. “Anything else?”
“Jon?”
The rabbi shook his head, keeping his eyes off Buffy’s ample bosom.
“A bagel if you have it,” Decker answered.
“We have a bagel, lox, and cream cheese platter.”
“That’s fine. And I’d also like a cup of ice and a napkin.”
Buffy nodded. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
“I’ll place the order and get you the ice,” Buffy said. “Ambrosia will be your server.”
“Thank you.” When she was gone, Decker said, “Where do they come up with these names?”
Jonathan attempted a smile, but his eyes were glued to Decker’s bruises.
Decker ignored the unstated question mark. “When I worked Sex Crimes, I used to come to places like this all the time. Sleazier places, actually. Real down-and-dirty stuff. The girls were older, much more shopworn, perfect fodder for psycho bullies who liked to punch and rape. It was very sad.”
Jonathan nodded.
“These girls look healthier.”
“But for how long?” Jonathan asked. “They’re all under twenty-five, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
“It’s only a matter of time before their looks go. Then what?”
“Well, if they haven’t sucked it up their veins or blown it up their noses, they might be okay. There’s money to be made here. It’s not as if they lost their opportunities to become rocket scientists.”
Buffy came back with the ice and napkin. “I have some aspirin.”
Decker reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Advil. “Thank you, but I’m fine.” He poured the cubes into the napkin and placed them on his face.
“What happened?” Jonathan finally asked.
“Some street psycho took an instant dislike to me.”
“That’s awful!” A hesitation. “He just punched you?”