Bowen believed in gathering all the intel he could when he hunted someone, and he ran computer searches on both Petyr and his girlfriend to check national criminal histories. He’d printed two sets of everything he found, including photos, and threw together two powder-blue investigative folders. It was four in the morning when he finished, and Cheekie’s was closed by the time they got there. Rather than banging on more doors and tipping their hand, they’d decided to postpone their hunt in favor of a couple of hours of much needed sleep.
Thibodaux picked Bowen up at his hotel at eight a.m. looking more well rested than he should have. The chilly morning air, along with a stainless-steel mug of black coffee, helped to make Bowen feel almost human again. By the time Thibodaux worked his way through the sea of yellow cabs and clogged morning traffic to hit the Brooklyn Bridge that carried them over the East River, he was ready for business.
A large neon sign made up of two tilted wine glasses forming the outline of a female backside, hung above the red double doors of what could have only loosely been called a gentleman’s club. Nikka Minchkhi’s rap sheet noted that she lived in a small apartment above the place. Thibodaux drove around the block to get a better view of the back entrance. He parked the rented Taurus along the curb a half block away beside a kids’ playground that seemed to Bowen to be horribly close to a tittie bar.
“I think I’m more excited to find this spittin’ stripper than I am to find Petyr the Wolf.” Thibodaux tapped the steering wheel with his big hands. “He’s gonna be boring next to her.”
“She’s our best bet to find him.” Bowen leaned back in his seat and opened the blue folder to flip through Minchkhi’s file.
Thibodaux stared out the windshield, deep in some thought. “She worked until the wee hours of the mornin’ not counting any… side business. My bet is she’s still sleepin’ this time of day.”
“No rest for the wicked.” Bowen sighed. He set the file on the dash so he could check out Cheekie’s website on his phone. “Apparently there’s enough of a demand for skanky pole dancers during the day that they open back up in a few minutes.”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and returned to the file to learn what he could about Nikka Minchkhi.
Originally from Tbilisi, Georgia, she had apparently come to the U.S., as did many women from Eastern Europe, with the promise of a job to be a nanny that somehow evaporated when she arrived. Since then she’d been arrested nine times for prostitution, the first shortly after she’d gotten to America when she was only eighteen years old. She looked terrified in that booking photo but still relatively normal in well-kept brunette hair and a loose gray sweater that hung off a pale shoulder. The arresting officers and the prosecuting attorney had been certain the girl was forced into prostitution and basically living as a slave — but Minchkhi had steadfastly refused to give them any information. The charges had been dropped.
Something happened after that first arrest because the photos that came afterword became increasingly terrifying. Apart from her crimes in the sex trade, Nikka had a record for shoplifting, a couple of minor drug offenses, and one arrest for stabbing a fellow prostitute in the thigh with the pointy end of a rattail comb. Each time, she’d also been charged with resisting arrest and assault on a police officer — and each time, the charges were reduced to disorderly conduct.
“I’d like to see what the judges would charge her with if she attacked one of them,” Thibodaux said, perusing an identical copy of her arrest record from behind the steering wheel.
Bowen chuckled. It was impossible to dispute the point.
The last five of Nikka’s later booking photos portrayed a tall woman with broad shoulders caught mid-swing in a fight with the jail photographer. Bleached blond hair stuck out in all directions like some sort of Medusa. Heavy makeup ringed tired, but still crazy, blue eyes. Ruby red lipstick smeared a full mouth, as if she’d been interrupted while trying to wipe it off. In one photo, her face looked as if it had been ground against a curb, complete with a giant raspberry of pink flesh on a swollen cheek. Another showed a split lip and a broken front tooth. Black eyes and torn clothes were common to all the later booking photos — along with blotchy red flesh from beneath her sullen chin that Detective O’Hearn told them about.
Bowen looked up from the file at the Marine. “Fighting a girl is bad enough,” he said. “Naked girls are the worst.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Thibodaux shuddered. He tossed his file folder on the center console and put a hand on the door. “Guess we better get this show on the road.”
Bowen sat up straighter. “I usually like to sit and watch the address for a bit — see who comes and goes.”
“You kidding me, Gus Gus? Lookin’ at your wounded face I’d peg you for more of a barge-in-and-see-who’sin-there kind of guy.” Thibodaux checked over his shoulder out the window for traffic, ready to fling open the door.
“Depends on the moment,” Bowen said. “If things are chill and nobody’s getting hurt, then it’s better to wait.”
Thibodaux let out a deep sigh. “Sittin’ and starin’ at the outside of a strip club ain’t much of…” His voice trailed off, and his jaw fell open.
Bowen followed the Cajun’s gaze out the front window to see a familiar tall woman with broad shoulders unfold herself from a little red Miata that had pulled up to park along the curb in front of them. Ronnie Garcia wore the car like a cute little blouse that was a touch too tight. Full, ebony hair hung over each shoulder, dappled in the shade of a sycamore that stood like a sentinel between the playground and the strip club. Bowen couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she leaned down to get her purse from the passenger seat. It was a pretty sure bet Quinn would have shot him had he been there to see him gawking.
Garcia backed out of the Miata with her purse and pulled on a zippered hoodie.
“Hey, boys,” she said, after Bowen had regained the partial use of his brain and rolled down the passenger window on the Taurus. “Palmer gave me a quick brief on Nikka while I was driving over to meet you.” She rolled her bad shoulder for effect. “Maybe I’m still on the injured list, but I think I can still be of some use getting information in an upstanding establishment like this.”
“Palmer tell you she’s a fighter?” Thibodaux said.
Garcia grinned. “Yo también.” Me too. “But I’ll leave the fighting to you he-men. If we want to find out if Nikka’s hiding Petyr, then we need to get inside without giving him a chance to run. Crashing in like you boys were about to do is likely to get us nada.”
Bowen nodded and shot a quick glance at the Cajun, who’d wanted to do just that, but didn’t linger long enough to gloat.
“I have an idea that will get us inside,” Garcia said, throwing open the back door to climb in behind Bowen. “You boys avert your eyes a minute.”
A series of grunts and cursing came from the backseat for the next few seconds, followed by a black sports bra flying forward to land on the dash. “Thanks, boys,” Garcia said. “No way a girl of my… stature could do that in the Miata with a bad shoulder.” She opened the door again and got out, stopping beside Bowen’s window to draw a folding knife from her jeans. Flicking it open, she stuck the point under the fabric of her polo shirt below the bottom button, and cut a small slit. Returning the knife to her pocket, she used both hands to tear a three-inch rip in the garment — sending a shudder up Bowen’s spine.