The Homicide Hustle (12 page)

Chapter 16

Darkness draped the southeast end of Pennsylvania Avenue. No lights shone from Club
Nitro and I realized uneasily that the club must be closed on Sundays. I’d been counting
on the presence of dozens of people in line outside the club to make us feel less
isolated in the park. I pulled into the empty valet parking lot and parked my Beetle.
I hesitated, looking across the street at the seemingly empty park.

“Second thoughts?” Phoebe asked.

“No.” Still, I didn’t open the door.

“Let’s get it over with.” Phoebe got out and I followed suit. “Where does this dude
hang out?”

“He was over there Thursday night,” I said, pointing to the spot on the sidewalk that
had seemed like the drug dealer’s territory. A kid who couldn’t have been more than
ten or eleven leaned against the fence, arms crossed over his chest. A dinged-up pickup
slowed at the curb as we watched and the boy exchanged a few words with its occupants,
then vanished into the park.

“That kid works for your dealer,” Phoebe said, watching as he reappeared and passed
something to the pickup’s passenger. “A bagboy. We’ll start with him.” She stalked
across the street, ignoring the van bearing down on her and forcing the driver to
stand on his brakes.

I scuttled across the street in her wake, making “so sorry” gestures at the van’s
driver. He took off with squealing tires and the odor of exhaust. I didn’t catch what
Phoebe said to the kid, but he darted away as I drew even with them.

“I told him his boss—the kid says he goes by Li’l Boni—stands to make some money by
talking to us. We’ll see if that gets him. If not, I’m going home. I am not crashing
around this park hollering for Li’l Boni.”

“He’s not ‘little’ anything,” I said. As I finished speaking, the man I’d seen Thursday
night materialized from the shadows and studied us from ten feet away. He seemed even
bigger up close, with a heavy brow, bald head, and a cold stare. His black leather
coat sagged down on the right, and I imagined he had a gun in the pocket. I backed
up two steps but Phoebe held her ground.

“Rashid tell me you wan’ talk ’bout money.” His voice was a bass rumble that fit with
his appearance.

Phoebe looked at me as if to say this was my show. “I’m Stacy,” I said, holding out
my hand.

Li’l Boni didn’t even look at it and I let my arm drop to my side, feeling foolish.
“There’s a reward for information about Tessa King. I know you talked to her Tuesday
night.”

“You don’ know nothin’.” His expression didn’t change.

He was probably right about that. “Um, well, this is Tessa.” I held up the photo from
the newspaper that I’d tucked into my pocket. “She was a producer for
Ballroom with the B-Listers
.”

“I watch dat. I voted for d’other chick.”

I didn’t bother asking him which one, although Phoebe exclaimed, “Why you didn’t vote
for me, bro?”

His eyes cut to her, then returned to me. “The money?”

“If you watched the show last night, you know. Nigel Whiteman, Tessa’s partner, offered
a reward to anyone with information about her death.”

Li’l Boni took a step forward and a shadow moved behind him. I wondered uneasily if
he had lieutenants ready to back him up if things went south. “I din’ kill the bitch.”

“But you talked to her?”

After a moment, he nodded. I stayed quiet, hoping he’d be more forthcoming. “She wanted
to make a documentary about dealers, pimps. ‘Street capitalists,’ she called us.”

As soon as he said it, I knew he was telling the truth. I mentally hit myself for
not having guessed it earlier. Tessa had made several gritty documentaries—the fluffy
dance show wasn’t her only project. “She wanted to film you?”

He nodded and a large diamond stud on his ear winked. “Me and my bomb squad.”

“You said?”

“Show me the money.”

For a moment I thought he was asking me for the reward money, but then I realized
that’s what he’d said to Tessa.

“And?”

“Bitch said she was still gettin’ the deal put together. She’d get back to me. I tol’
her she knew where my office was at.” He pointed to the sidewalk and suddenly grinned,
lighting up the night with a mouthful of gold and small diamonds on each of his front
six teeth.

“Then what?”

He shrugged. “She left.” He pointed down the street toward where Tessa had parked
her Mercedes. “Got into a car with a dude and drove off.” Now, he pointed to the southeast,
the route Zane and I had taken Thursday night.

“A guy? She left with a guy? Who? What’d he look like?” I moved closer to Li’l Boni
in my excitement and he slipped a hand into his pocket. I backed away quickly. “Sorry.
No offense, Mr. Boni. Can you describe the man?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Too far.”

It was about two blocks to where Tessa’s car had been parked and impossible, in the
absence of street lights, to see much of anything beyond the vague shape of two cars,
one parked on either side of the road. I felt deflated. “Well, thanks anyway.”

“I saw dat other bitch out here, the one from the show,” Li’l Boni offered. “Same
night.”

Phoebe stiffened beside me, as surprised as I was. My eyes widened. “Who?”

“Chelsea.”

I crinkled my brow. There was no Chelsea on the show.

“What’d she look like?”

Li’l Boni gave me a look. “Chelsea. Skinny blond ho.” He held his hand, palm down,
at about midchest. “Short, but with attitude.”

The other women on the show were all brunettes or redheads. I was the only blonde,
except . . . “That sounds like Kristen Lee,” I said slowly, “but—”

Phoebe cut in. “Kristen used to play Chelsea Irving on
Irving Crescent
,” she said.

“Right. What I said. Chelsea Irving.” Li’l Boni nodded. “Bitch was here Tuesday night,
looking for Carrie.”

Who the heck was Carrie and why would Kristen be looking for her
here
?

Seeing my confusion, Li’l Boni put a finger to the side of his nose and jerked his
head back as if snorting. “Carrie.”

To say I was dumbfounded was putting it too mildly. I couldn’t imagine Kristen Lee
traipsing around this park in the dead of night, looking to buy cocaine. Still, what
did I know about Kristen? Nada. I’d bought in to her “one club soda and early to bed”
routine. “What time? Before or after you talked to Tessa?”

“Early.”

Before I could probe further, an SUV that had already been around the block once cruised
by again. “I got bidness to tend to,” Li’l Boni said, his gaze following the SUV.

Phoebe and I were dismissed.

“Thank y—” I started, only to gasp when Li’l Boni’s big hand flashed out to grab my
wrist. His thumb overlapped his thick fingers by at least two inches, making me feel
like he could snap my bone with no more effort than breaking a toothpick.

“The reward.” His eyes had narrowed and his nostrils flared. He didn’t look angry,
but menace flowed off him and Phoebe’s words about drug dealers not being nice guys
came back to me.

“I don’t have it yet. I’ll tell Nigel. He—”

“We’re leaving now.” Phoebe’s voice was flat and surprisingly calm. It took Li’l Boni
about as long as it took me to spot the gun that had appeared in her hand.

Two men stepped out of the shadows behind Li’l Boni and I scrunched my eyes closed,
waiting for bullets to rip into us. This was not going the way I had planned. Opening
my eyes again, I saw the emotionless way Li’l Boni measured Phoebe. Reaching into
my pocket, I dug out the money I had put there earlier and thrust it toward the dealer.
My hand trembled.

“A hundred dollars. For your time. I will make sure Nigel knows how helpful you’ve
been and I’m sure . . . when he gives out the reward . . .”

Phoebe nudged me off the curb as Li’l Boni took the money and released my wrist. “You
got balls, bitch. I might even vote for you this week,” he told Phoebe as she backed
into the street. His laughter followed us across the street.

We scrambled into the car and I peeled out, making it about half a mile before pulling
over to the roadside to take a deep breath a still my shaking hands. “Damn, girl,”
I repeated Phoebe’s favorite phrase to her. “I didn’t know you had a gun.”

She patted her purse. “Every smart woman has a gun.”

I guess I knew what that made me.

“I thought you were a martial arts star and could kung fu your way out of anything.”
I was babbling, still keyed up and shaky from the encounter with Li’l Boni.

Giving me a disbelieving stare, Phoebe said, “Kung fu doesn’t work against guns. I
don’t do kung fu anyway. I started with tae kwon do and I’ve been getting into krav
maga lately.” When I looked a question at her, she added, “Israeli. You know what
we need now?”

I looked at her blankly.

“Pie. Any Village Inns around here? Diners?”

Laughing weakly, I wilted forward so my head rested on the steering wheel, then straightened
and started the car.

* * *

Over slices of pie at a Silver Diner, Phoebe and I discussed the evening. It wasn’t
yet eleven o’clock, but I felt like I’d been up for three days. A woman alone reading
a fat paperback was the diner’s only other customer, and one of the servers ran a
rug sweeper. An oldies station played softly in the background. Forking up a bite
of cherry pie, I let the tart and sweet flavors mingle in my mouth before swallowing.

“Hits the spot,” Phoebe agreed with my unspoken comment, eating the last morsel of
her pecan pie. “Just like Nana used to make. Hell, probably still does. I haven’t
been back to Atlanta in ten, twelve years.”

“That’s sad.”

Phoebe leaned back against the red vinyl booth, not following up on my comment. “Let’s
not do that again, girlfriend. I am too old for that kind of excitement.”

I knew she wasn’t talking about the pie. “Agreed. Do you think Boni was telling the
truth?”

“Man’s got no reason to lie.”

“Coffee?” The server appeared and refilled Phoebe’s cup. I shook my head; caffeine
at this hour would keep me up all night.

Leaning forward, I whispered. “What about Kristen? Do you think she does drugs? Was
she really in the park, or was it maybe some other blonde from the nightclub?”

Phoebe’s eyelids closed halfway and she gave me a look I couldn’t interpret, a mix
of world-weary cynicism and maybe disdain for my naïveté. “Ain’t no big deal if Kristen
does a line now and then. Everybody does. Well, except me, now that I’m clean, and
maybe Robert Downey Jr.”

“I’ve never—” I cut myself off, not wanting to sound like Priscilla Perfect, or like
I was judging her. “So you think it’s coincidence that Kristen was in the park near
the time that Tessa disappeared?”

Phoebe emptied a packet of sugar into her coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. “Probably.
Li’l Boni probably gets a lot of business from Club Nitro. I’m sure he pays some of
the staff to point potential customers his way.”

I bit back the “Really?” that sprang to my lips, tired of looking so clueless. “Who
was the man, then? The man Tessa left with?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? No way to know, I guess. Dude could be anyone—a hot
bod she picked up for the night, another source for her new documentary, Zane.”

“Zane?”

She shrugged. “They used to have a thing.”

“Used to.”

“And he left earlyish.”

“To get some sleep before rehearsals.”

“If you say so.” Phoebe sipped her coffee.

I drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment, fighting back the urge to defend
Zane. It had to be someone from the TV show, I reminded myself, thinking about the
brick through my window. As much as I wanted to think Tessa had met another slimy
character—a pimp, maybe—to interview for her new documentary and he’d killed her,
I knew better. Zane had argued with Tessa earlier that day. . . . Knowing it was too
abrupt, I slid out of the booth. “We’d better get going. Early call tomorrow.”

We travelled the short distance to the long-stay complex in silence, Phoebe yawning
twice. “Thanks for going with me,” I said as she opened the door to get out.

Swinging her long legs out, she grinned. “Don’t you know Nigel would be sick if he
knew he’d missed the opportunity to film you and me mixing it up with a drug dealer?”

The thought made me grin as I drove off.

Chapter 17

Vitaly was waiting for me Monday morning, Trade Day, when I staggered up the interior
stairs to Graysin Motion. We’d agreed to meet at six thirty to get in a rehearsal
before our
Blisters
commitments got in the way. He gave me a comprehensive look, and said, “Well, looking
what the cat dragged in.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” I’d tossed and turned until almost two, and then had nightmares
where I was dancing with Li’l Boni and he was going to shoot me if we didn’t win.

“Dancing will make you feels better,” Vitaly announced. “Come.” I took his extended
hand and let him pull me into the ballroom. We stretched and marched in place for
fifteen minutes to warm up, then Vitaly turned on the CD player. “Cha-cha first.”

The steady beat of “Corazon de Melon” came through the speakers and Vitaly drew me
in. He took a checked step toward me on the second beat of the bar and I stepped back,
keeping the ball of my foot in contact with the floor. Rosemary Clooney’s voice transported
me to an open-air bar where Spanish phrases tangled with the music. Imagining a sultry
Havana night got me into the mood of the dance that originated in Cuba, and my hips
swayed to the beat. My free leg remained straight and our cha-cha-cha chassé was rhythmic
and effortless.

* * *

Vitaly was right: after an hour of dancing, I did feel better. It always worked that
way. I kissed him on the cheek when we finished. “Thanks. See you in five.” I ran
downstairs to shower before the TV crew arrived.

When I returned, the studio bustled with activity and I almost bumped into Zane when
I turned the corner to my office. He steadied me with his hands on my upper arms and
his smile was warm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said.

With a peek down the hall to ensure no one was there, he bent his head and kissed
me. I leaned into the kiss for a moment, but pulled away quickly at the sound of a
footstep. I glanced over my shoulder. No one.

“It wasn’t near as much fun doing my laundry after you left.” He smiled down at me.

“Let’s get going, people.” Nigel’s voice sounded from inside the ballroom. “Time is
money. Chop-chop.”

“Have lunch with me,” Zane whispered as we moved toward the ballroom. “I took Kristen
up on her invitation last night.”

“Can’t,” I said. “Appointment.” We entered the ballroom before I had a chance to tell
him I had made an appointment with Detective Lissy to tell him what Phoebe and I had
learned last night. He’d sounded less than thrilled to hear from me, but had agreed
to a lunchtime meeting.

The sight of Calista Marques in the middle of the ballroom floor drove all thought
of Detective Lissy from my mind. Oh, no! Hip cocked, she was texting, bobbing to music
coming through earbuds, jaw working on a piece of gum. She didn’t look up when I came
in. My gaze flew to Vitaly where he stood talking to Phoebe. She gestured widely,
apparently trying to convince him of something, but he shook his head. Nigel and two
cameramen got it all. Vitaly strode toward me and Zane, and Phoebe followed.

“What’s Calista doing here?” I asked in a low voice, afraid I knew.

“Phoebe is tossing me aside like the used Kleenex,” Vitaly said, giving her a hurt
look.

“I did not tell the girl I would trade,” Phoebe said, exasperated. “I agreed to let
her practice with you this morning, take you for a test drive, if you like. She’s
making a ten-thousand-dollar donation to my foundation just to dance with you for
an hour. Don’t go getting all sulky on me.”

“I am not BMW,” Vitaly said.

I could see his feelings were truly hurt. I hugged him. “Maybe Calista won’t like
dancing with you,” I said.

“All the womens like dancing with Vitaly,” he said glumly.

Phoebe punched his arm. “You’re my main man,” she said. “Just dance with the skinny
child for an hour and then we can get down to practicing. You and me are going to
the top of the leaderboard this week.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Zane said. “That spot’s reserved for me and Stacy.”

Calista walked up then, pulling one earbud out of her ear. “I am so excited to dance
with you, Vitaly,” she said, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder with the back
of her hand. Her light olive complexion glowed with good health and youth and I thought
enviously of the days when I didn’t have to spend more money on moisturizer than makeup.
Her brown eyes, fringed with the lashes that had landed her a mascara ad, smiled into
his.

“Me, as well,” Vitaly said. Shooting a darkling look at Phoebe, he offered Calista
his hand and led her to the middle of the floor. One camera tracked their progress
and the other focused on Phoebe’s face. Nigel came to stand beside us.

“They move well together, don’t you think?” he asked.

I knew he was trying to needle Phoebe, so I didn’t say anything, but he was right.
Calista followed Vitaly’s lead like she’d been dancing with him for years. Her every
gesture, the way she held her head, her dainty steps, made it seem as if she had music
rather than blood in her veins.

“She and Nikolai were at the bottom of the leaderboard,” Nigel murmured, gesturing
to the new cameraman to move to a spot near the windows.

Was he implying that Calista had been voted off? I was sure he already had access
to the voting results from Saturday night. If the viewers had kicked off Calista,
and she ended up with Vitaly, he would go with her and that would halve our chances
of winning
Blisters
and receiving the prize money. Zane draped an arm across my shoulder, as if aware
of my thoughts, and squeezed. “I wouldn’t trade you for anyone,” he whispered.

It didn’t take Calista the full hour to make up her mind; she walked up to Phoebe
before the last note of the foxtrot died away. “I so want him,” she announced.

I tensed and watched Vitaly, who was pretending disinterest by rooting in his gym
bag.

Phoebe pursed her lips. “Sorry. I don’t want to trade.”

“I’ll give you ten percent of my viewer votes.” Calista Marques hadn’t reached the
pinnacle of fame so young without having more determination than the average bear.
And she was clearly determined to finish the
Blisters
season with Vitaly.

Phoebe shook her head.

“I’ll get my agent to sign you.”

Zane’s brows disappeared under his hair and I gathered Calista’s offer was a good
one.

“I’m happy with Ari.”

Calista’s expression said she doubted it. “I’ll headline a fund-raiser for your girls’
club.”

For the first time, Phoebe hesitated. Her gaze went to Vitaly and a line appeared
between her brows. Then she nodded decisively and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

Calista beamed, shook hands, and rushed over to Vitaly. She hugged him and his expression
reproached Phoebe over Calista’s shoulder.

“Didn’t slave auctions get outlawed after the Civil War?” Zane asked in an undertone.

“Tell the viewers why you traded Vitaly, Phoeb,” Nigel said, beckoning one camera
closer.

I suddenly wondered if he’d offered either of the women incentives to trade, knowing
that a partner switch would up the drama and increase viewer interest. This show was
making me cynical.

“It was too good a deal to pass up,” Phoebe said. She spoke to the camera, but I knew
she was really explaining herself to Vitaly. “With Calista Marques singing at our
fund-raiser, we’ll raise millions.
Blisters
is just a TV show. Girls who need a leg up, who need help getting themselves back
on track, are
real
.”

I supposed I couldn’t argue with that. Vitaly approached and gave her a bear hug,
lifting her off her feet. “I understands,” he said. “You are the good person, and
a good dancer. Too bad you are now losing the competition.”

Phoebe grinned in relief and socked him on the shoulder.

* * *

I arrived at the police station off of Mill Road, in the Beltway’s shadow, at noon.
An admin type walked me back to Detective Lissy’s office after branding me with a
visitor’s badge. Lissy didn’t appear to be in the office, but when I knocked tentatively
on the open door, his head appeared above the desk. “A moment, Ms. Graysin.” He disappeared
again, but stood up seconds later with a creak of his knees, holding up a pen. He
settled himself in the chair behind his desk and looked impatiently at me where I
hovered in the doorway. “Sit.”

I sat. I’d been here before and it didn’t look like anything had changed. Photos of
his grandchildren still marched in descending height order along the credenza. File
folders, which probably weren’t the ones that he’d had out when I’d been here last,
but which looked the same, were precisely aligned with the edges of his desk. His
inbox and outbox were both empty. I suspected the garbage in his trash can was organized
by size: bigger items on the bottom, smaller ones on top.

“Well?” His impatient voice broke into my thoughts.

“Phoebe Jackson and I talked with a gentleman named Li’l Boni last night and got some
information about Tessa King.”

“You said as much in your phone call,” he said with a “get on with it” motion.

I crossed my legs, refusing to be hurried. I told him about last night, leaving out
only Phoebe’s speculation that Zane was the man who left with Tessa and the bit about
Phoebe’s gun. I didn’t know if it was legal for her to carry it around in her purse
and I didn’t want to get her in trouble.

“You do realize that it was extremely foolish of you to confront a criminal like Boni
on his turf?” Lissy’s voice and expression were sour.

I’d realized it as soon as he grabbed my arm, but I wasn’t going to admit it to Lissy.
I remained silent.

“We spoke with Li’l Boni, after the bartender pointed us to him.” Lissy tapped his
pen on his desk.
Tick, tick, tick.
“His real name is Levon Bonine.”

I didn’t say anything, suspecting that if he had learned as much as Phoebe and I,
he’d already have kicked me out of his office.

Finally, he drew a steno pad toward him and pulled a sharpened pencil from his desk
drawer. “What did Bonine say the man looked like, and exactly when did he see the
person he identified as Kristen Lee?”

“He didn’t get a good look at the man with Tessa, and he actually identified the blonde
as ‘Chelsea,’ but Phoebe said that was the name of a character Kristen used to play
on a television show.”

“Irving Crescent,”
Lissy supplied, surprising me. “My wife watched it,” he explained, clearly anxious
to distance himself from the nighttime soap. “I’m a
Jeopardy!
man myself. That and
Hoarders
.”

The thought of this precise, compulsively neat man watching
Hoarders
tickled me. I’d caught part of an episode once and it almost made me ill.

He allowed himself a half smile at my amusement. “It’s a train wreck,” he said. “It
is beyond my comprehension how people live like that, surrounded by all that . . .
clutter.”

The way he said “clutter,” it sounded like a sin on par with mass murder. I gave him
the information he wanted, and a hopeful look. “So I helped?”

Before he could either acknowledge my contribution to his investigation or, as I suspected
would happen, read me a lecture about sticking to dancing, a tall man with reddish
hair and a gun at his waist poked his head in. “The hit-and-run vic’s come around,
Marv. I’m headed over there.” He named a nearby hospital.

“I’m done here,” Lissy said, rising. “Give me thirty seconds.” The other man nodded
and exited with only a cursory glance at me.

I knew my cue when I heard it and I rose, too. “I know the way out,” I said.

Lissy gave a curt nod, pulled a suit jacket from the coat rack behind his desk, and
accompanied me to the office door. I started down the hall, but turned when he called,
“Ms. Graysin.”

He was going to thank me, I thought, keeping the smile off my face and lifting a gently
enquiring eyebrow.

“In future, leave the investigating to professionals. Stick to dancing.”

Without replying, I turned and flounced toward the exit, wishing I was wearing a full
skirt that would flounce better than the linen slacks I had on.