Uptown Thief (26 page)

VanDyke's jaw clenched. “I'll admit,” he said, “I have been less than forthcoming. Ms. Rivera and I did dine together.”

“Did she also witness the robbery?”

“Yes.”

“You can confirm that your driver picked her up near Central Park?”

“At my request,” he said. “People watch me. They watch my car. They follow my staff. I didn't want to be seen picking up a woman from her office location.”

“What?” Raul asked. “The neighborhood isn't gentrified enough for you?”

“Not the neighborhood,” VanDyke said. “But a clinic that serves prostitutes.”

“Are you kidding me?” Raul said. “Marisol Rivera is the executive director, not some girl getting a pregnancy test.”

VanDyke looked down at his hands. “Perhaps my focus on protecting my privacy may have underresourced my security. I'll be reordering my priorities.” VanDyke looked over at Mathias. “Are we done here, Detective?”

The cop nodded and sent him out to sign a revised statement.

“He tried to clean it up,” Raul told Mathias and Delano. “But I know what he meant. Fucking racist. She's too brown for the billionaire to be seen with?”

“I don't think it's a race thing,” Delano said.

“I don't need a white cop to tell me what is and isn't a race thing,” Raul said.

“Guys,” Mathias said. “Forget it. We got what we came for.”

Marisol watched them with a growing feeling of dread.

“I know the race thing happens,” Delano said. “I'm just saying not in this particular case.”

“Hey, you two.” Mathias raised his voice. “Let's go.”

“What the hell do you think the issue was?” Raul asked. “Because any guy would be lucky to have dinner with a woman like her.”

“I'm just saying,” Delano said. “I think VanDyke was worried about her rap sheet.”

Marisol did the math in her head. No way could she push past the uniformed cop, run out the door, and get to Raul to explain there was something she hadn't told him yet.

“Rap sheet?” Raul asked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Raul stepped closer to Delano.

“Back the fuck up,” Delano said. “Matty, what's he even doing here? He's not a cop anymore.”

“Barrios is consulting on this case, and I asked him to come,” Mathias said. “We got what we wanted, so let's move on.”

“Not until you tell me about Marisol Rivera's rap sheet,” Raul said, turning toward Mathias.

Mathias glanced at the two-way mirror, his expression contrite. “Ms. Rivera has two prior arrests,” Mathias said quietly. “Now, can we drop it?”

“Arrests for what?” Raul asked.

Not like this. He shouldn't hear it like this. He should hear it from her. Just the two of them. When she could remind him he'd promised not to hold her sexual past against her.

“For prostitution,” Delano said.

Marisol's eyes flew to Raul. He said them like they were just ordinary words, five matter-of-fact syllables that hadn't just changed the course of her life. Raul's eyes widened in shock. His jaw clenched.

“See?” Delano said. “It's not a race thing. It's a hooker thing.”

Raul stood, fists balled up.

“Why don't you take five, Barrios?” Mathias asked.

“You knew?” Raul asked, looking directly at Mathias.

“Take five. Okay, buddy?” Mathias asked.

Raul slammed the door behind him.

“What's with him?” Delano asked.

Marisol leaped up and bolted for the door. The officer restrained her.

“Miss, I have orders not to let you leave,” he said.

She managed to stick her head out the door. “Raul!”

He turned and looked at her, his face puckered in bitter lines of bewilderment. He shook his head and turned away.

Marisol let the sergeant escort her back to her seat.

She didn't hear the door close or Raul's retreating footsteps. She looked past the two-way glass and through the two men in the illuminated room
.
She recalled standing in another police station surrounded by men in uniforms. She had been wearing a gold halter top, booty shorts, and platform wedge sandals splattered with mud. She had willed herself not to shiver in the freezing air-conditioned room. The only difference between then and now was that today she had on business casual.

Mathias came back in. “Mission accomplished,” he said with a stiff smile. “All the stories match.”

Marisol felt a rock where her heart should be.

She kept seeing Raul's face, contorted with hurt, his back walking away. She wanted to bolt for the door and catch him to explain. But fuck that. She wasn't gonna chase down some
pendejo
. For what? She imagined some
telenovela
scene: “
Please, forgive me. I was young and didn't know what I was doing . . .
”

She had nothing to apologize for. More like, “
Fuck you. I did what I had to do to protect my family, and fuck you some more if you're gonna hold that against me.
”

Fuck the whole romance bullshit with Raul. Who the hell was he? Not the fantasy about them having a future together—some bullshit dream on the beach—but the reality.

Just a two-time hookup. The little brother of her friend from high school. Some sex she'd mistaken for something more. All that love he talked about? That wasn't love. That was some immature schoolboy crush. Love was putting on your dead mother's dress and fucking a stranger to keep your little sister out of foster care.

Eva was right: The only person she really loved was Cristina. She could catch a plane to Havana tomorrow.

She tried to reach for a feeling, conjure her sister's face. She felt nothing. She slid her hand up to her locket. It lay on top of her cotton undershirt, but beneath her blouse, cool to the touch.

Mathias said, “I assumed he knew. Didn't you grow up together?”

Marisol began to feel something. A buzzing started in the soles of her feet and moved up her legs. Rage. So strong, she began to tremble with it. She knew she should leave, but she didn't care. Raul? Cristina? It felt like nothing mattered anymore.

“It's not just some coincidence that I run a clinic for sex workers,” she said. “I know how hard it is on the street. And New York's Finest are a big part of the problem. What other guys pay for, NYPD takes for free.” She looked at Mathias. She could feel the heat under her neck, her face, her scalp.
Rapist.
The word almost spit itself out of her mouth.

“You can go now, Ms. Rivera,” he said.

She opened her mouth, but the rage must have unlocked something else, some whisper of caring about seeing Cristina. She walked out with her back straight and her head held high, the same strut she'd performed down the runway of VanDyke's hall.

* * *

Marisol held it together on the taxi ride home, all the way into the clinic and down the hallway to Eva's couch. She lay with her face against the microfiber and sobbed.

“What happened, honey?” Eva asked.

“The cops read Raul my rap sheet.”

“I'm so sorry,” Eva said.

“I'm not,” Marisol said, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. She grabbed a tissue. “I don't need him. Fucking asshole.
El amor es una mierda
.”

“Marisol, you shouldn't—”

“No, you're the one who shouldn't,” she spat. “You shouldn't have pushed me to date him. To open my heart. If this is what an open heart feels like, I'd rather have open heart surgery.”

“I know,” Eva said.

“I'm not cut out for this shit,” Marisol said. “If I want a man, I can find one uptown any night of the week. I don't care if you judge me for it. Fuck Raul. He doesn't have anything I need.”

* * *

That night, or really Saturday morning, she got a late phone call that woke her up.

“So, is it true?” Raul's drunken voice came through the phone, his speech slurred.

“Is what true?” Marisol asked. She blinked at her phone, which said 1:52 a.m. “That I was a sex worker?”

“When I asked you about yourself,” he said, “you told me you had dated a bunch. Izzat what qualifies as ‘a bunch' these days? Fucking guys for money?”

Marisol was wide-awake now, and pissed. “If you wanna know about me so bad, why don't you go look it up on your cop database?”

When he spoke again, his voice was a malicious hiss. “You fucking lied to me. I've been called
hijo de la gran puta
before. But I never thought I'd be
novio de la gran puta
.”

Marisol slammed the phone down.

This time when she cried, it was equal parts rage and sorrow.

Chapter 26

O
n Monday, two days later, Marisol stood in the rooftop garden above her apartment. In the dusk light, she could scarcely make out the lavender buds on a bush one of the staff had planted. She looked past the garden, past the opposite buildings with their rows of bright windows and zigzag fire escapes. She looked past the church spires and skyscrapers, toward the horizon and the cloud cover over the city.

Her chest ached. She had been distracted from it all afternoon in the bustle of the clinic, but the minute she was alone, the grief fell on her, heavy and sharp.

Her phone rang, and she felt a pang of hope in her solar plexus. That he was calling to apologize. To beg forgiveness. She didn't recognize the caller ID.
Stop it, Marisol
, she admonished herself.
Don't be that girl waiting for the phone to ring. You're done with him. Just ignore it.

She picked up the phone.

“Ms. Rivera? It's Jeremy VanDyke. I need to arrange a meeting with you, tonight.”

“Tonight's bad,” Marisol said, trying to recover from the disappointment that it wasn't Raul, and the even stronger disappointment that she cared.

“I apologize for the urgency of the request, but I can meet any time before I leave for Japan at four a.m.”

“Jeremy, what's this about?”

“I'd prefer to discuss it face-to-face.”

“As far as I'm concerned, our business has concluded,” Marisol said.

She walked into the building, closing the roof door behind her.

“I have a lucrative proposition for you,” VanDyke said.

“My workday is over,” she said. “Call me when you get back from Japan.”

“Five minutes,” he said. “There have been some—developments.”

“You've already had three minutes, and you haven't said anything. I'm hanging up.” She walked down the stairwell.

“Wait!” he said. “Security has been compromised from our previous meeting. Five minutes, Ms. Rivera. Please.”

“Security?” she asked, stepping into the clinic's administrative office area.

“Please,” he said. “I'd rather not discuss it over the phone.”

“Fine,” she said. “I'll be in my office for the next two hours.”

“My limo is out front. I'll be right up.”

Marisol rang off. She called Eva and explained the situation.

The intercom buzzed.

“Do you want me to come up?” Eva asked. “I'm only five minutes away.”

The bell buzzed again.

“Definitely,” Marisol said. “If you could come in through the back and just be in your office in case I need you.”

“Done,” Eva said. “I've been carrying around the panic button receiver in my purse, so use it if you need it.”

Marisol surveyed the mess in her office. Tax season always trashed the place. Manila folders and forms sat on every available surface, along with several grant proposals.

Marisol looked at the video intercom. Even with the grainy image, she could read the anxiety on VanDyke's face. She buzzed him in.

“I appreciate you making time on such short notice,” he said.

“Your five-minute clock is ticking,” she said.

“I understand that the police brought you in for questioning today about the robbery.”

Marisol shrugged and nodded.

“The police also mentioned your prior arrests—” he began.

“I'm familiar with my own police record, Jeremy,” Marisol said.

“I fired my driver for identifying you,” he said. “His dismissal included a generous severance package with a nondisclosure agreement. No leaks from him.” VanDyke pushed up the arms of his sweater. “My concern is about leaks from the department.”

“I can't control leaks from the department,” Marisol said.

“I'm concerned about what you might say that would corroborate their information,” VanDyke said.

“Jeremy,” Marisol said, “I told you I might have said something if we had gone out on a real date. We didn't. You hired me as an escort, and I won't be bragging about my reentry into the business, even for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It would jeopardize my professional reputation as an executive director, and leave me vulnerable to criminal charges.”

“But if the word gets out about your past,” VanDyke said, “your professional reputation will already be compromised. And the income potential of selling your story to the tabloids, or better yet, some tell-all memoir, would easily offset any losses of disclosure.”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked.

“Ms. Rivera,” he said. “You're a businesswoman who covers all the angles. I can't imagine this hasn't crossed your mind. Particularly with your account of the robbery, it would be quite marketable.”

“This is why you're here after-hours? This is your urgent business?” Marisol asked. “You're worried I'm gonna say some shit, since the cops know I did sex work ten years ago? How did I ever find you attractive? What I mistook for charisma is really just arrogance and self-centeredness.”

“I will ignore the name-calling and clarify,” he said. “I want to offer you another donation, in exchange for you signing a nondisclosure agreement.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a document.

“I—” He ran a hand through his hair, his face flushing a bit. “I wouldn't be so insistent, but the deal I have going in Tokyo is very big, and with an extremely conservative corporation. The cost of exposure would be quite significant right now.”

“Don't waste my time,” she told him, leaving the paper untouched on the desk. “At age seventeen, I learned to keep my mouth shut as a sex worker. If I could do it then, I can do it now. I don't want my picture in the
Post
with some lurid ‘I fucked a billionaire and all I got was this lousy two hundred fifty grand' story. I'm not gonna write a kiss-and-tell memoir about you.”

She looked around at the piles in her office, all the things she had to do. How was she supposed to do it all with a fifty-pound weight on her chest, pining for a guy whom she'd never even really had? Now Jeremy was coming with this bullshit?

“You, Jeremy VanDyke, have played a very minor role in the movie of my life, and your screen time is over,” she told him. “I'm gonna keep running my damn clinic, and continue—as I have—not thinking about you, not plotting any scheme that concerns you, and not even mentioning your name.”

“Ordinarily I would leave it at that, but this deal is very significant in our Asian market,” he said. “It's a question of timing.”

“No, it's a question of trust,” Marisol said. “You contracted a confidential service with a competent professional. And you need to get on your plane to Japan with your reputation in the hands of a whore. And you need to ask yourself, did the woman who went from street sex worker to running a two-million-dollar agency get there by shooting off her mouth?”

“Everything has a price,” he said. “Just name it.”

“Jeremy,” Marisol said. “Your five minutes are up. Why should I resell you something that came with the package of our previous transaction—my professional integrity?”

“Please,” he said. “Just look at the figure I'm offering.”

She opened up the paper. “Seventy-five thousand, huh? Okay, I'll sign,” she said, pulling a pen from the cup on her desk. “You'll just need to take your clothes off.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“The cost of exposure.” She nodded, uncapping the pen. “You'll just need to exit the building naked in front of my staff.”

He closed his eyes. “I really regret—” he began. “I was panicked and I—I should have allowed you to dress. I apologize.”

“No need for apologies,” Marisol said. “Like you said, you paid for the privilege. Everyone has their price. Is this yours? I sign this paper in exchange for you walking out, stark naked, in front of my all-female staff?”

“But if the press was ever—”

“No one will recognize you without your suit on, Jeremy,” Marisol said. “You'll just be a random, naked white man. But I can put a bag over your head if you're worried.”

“Ms. Rivera, please—” he began.

“Tick tock, Jeremy,” Marisol said. “Your Japanese investors are waiting. You need to decide if it's worth it. This offer expires in thirty seconds.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him her hardest stare.

Slowly, jaw set, he stood up and loosened his tie. When he opened the first button on his shirt, she put up a hand.

“Stop,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said.

She scrawled a signature on the agreement and tossed it onto the desk. “This meeting is over.”

He stood up, refolded the paper, and put it in his jacket. He pulled out a check and handed it across the desk to her.

“I can also see I made the right choice,” he said, turning in the doorway.

“About what?” Marisol asked.

“When I picked you to join me for the evening. I couldn't have foreseen the robbery, but—assuming you can be trusted—I was wise to get not only a thoroughly enjoyable evening, but a level of integrity that I might not have gotten from any of your . . . associates. Again, I apologize for my rudeness that evening.”

“Good night, Jeremy,” she said. “Good luck on your trip.”

She folded the check. A legitimate way to pay their taxes.

“Good luck to you, too,” he said. “I understand your clinic has come into a large sum of money.”

“Excuse me?” she said, her body suddenly chilled.

“The Operations Excellence grant,” he said. “I read it in one of the philanthropy papers. One-point-three million, is it?”

She nodded.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Be sure to spend it wisely.”

* * *

The eight million in cash barely fit on the coffee table in Marisol's office. She had the bricks of bills in three black garbage bags, each doubled against the razor-sharp corners.

The day after she met with VanDyke, her team sat on the couch as she set the third bag on the table. The days were staying light a little later, and they could see the last glow of daylight through the slit in the closed curtains.

“It's a good thing that we waited to divide up the money,” Marisol said. “Because some of the bills were marked.”

“Holy shit,” Jody said.

Marisol held the scrap of paper in her hand that she'd gotten from Raul with all the bill numbers on it. Her only souvenir from their little—whatever it was. Several days had passed since she had seen him in the police station. The sting wasn't as fresh, but the heartache was a constant presence.

“Let's find these marked bills,” she told the team.

“I fucking hate loose ends,” Tyesha said. “Marked bills? And what about Nalissa?”

“With her dumb ass,” Kim said, “she's gonna get herself arrested and then try to make a deal by snitching on us.”

Marisol shook her head. “What could she say? She worked with us as an escort, until she stole a bag of cash and started her own operation?”

“Maybe they'd care about the cash,” Jody said.

“Too small-time,” Marisol said. “Maybe if she knew something about VanDyke, but she doesn't.”

“Thank God,” Kim said.

“After we weed out the marked bills, let's sit on the cash for a few more months just in case,” Marisol said. “You should each have your cut by the end of the summer.”

Given the fifty-fifty split with the clinic, then the four-way split, each woman would get just under a million dollars.

“Speaking of loose ends,” Marisol said. “Jerry—”

“Loose ends or loose cannons?” Kim asked.

“I motherfucking hate pimps,” Tyesha said. “Even when they're someone else's pimp they can still fuck up your life.”

“I know,” Marisol said. “I was seeing our friend Jerry as a problem. But then I started seeing him as the solution.”

“Solution to what?” Kim asked.

“I had a talk with Dulce today,” Marisol said. “Jerry has a wall safe.”

“I say we rig it to blow up in his face,” Jody said.

“I second that motion,” Tyesha said.

“Even better,” Marisol said. “For the first time in our burglary careers, we'll be leaving a little tip.”

“Explosive?” Jody asked.

“Nope,” Marisol said. “I like to tip in cash.”

Marisol handed out latex gloves, face masks, and hairnets, and they began the arduous task of sorting through the take from the VanDyke heist to find the bill numbers on Raul's list.

They searched for a while without speaking.

“Got one!” Kim said, her voice muffled behind the mask.

Tyesha snatched the hundred-dollar bill from Kim and pulled down her mask. She sang the hook from a popular rap song: “
I gotta give my pimp all my money
.”

The women all laughed.

“When do we do the hit?” Kim asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Marisol said. “I got info from Dulce.”

* * *

Marisol's upper body felt sweaty and awkward in the male bodysuit. It was Wednesday, the night after they'd found all the marked bills. She stood in front of Jerry's safe, stuffing the pimp's cash and guns into her knapsack.

She felt around in the back of the safe, and her fingers came across something flattened against the rear wall. She aimed the flashlight, and found a manila envelope taped to the back of the safe.