“Did you tell her to call for backup?”
“She can’t. It’s not police business. It’s her own crazy shit. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said, tilting my head at Cheryl, hoping she’d pick up the baton.
“Don’t give me that puppy-dog look,” she said. “You know exactly what you’re going to do. You’re just hoping I’m the one who tells you to do it. Well, it’s not going to happen.”
Of course it wasn’t. I pressed the Recent Calls button on my phone and tapped the top one.
Kylie picked up on the first ring. “What?” she demanded.
“I told you this morning that I’d help, and I meant it.”
“Fine. Then get your ass up to the BP station on 129th and Park as fast as you can.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” I said, looking straight at Cheryl. “In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “And, Zach?”
“What?”
“Bring cash.”
I hung up the phone.
Cheryl walked over to the table, blew out the candles, then turned on the lights.
I grabbed my gun and badge from the counter, threw on my jacket, and went out the door.
Neither of us had said a word, which, in hindsight, was probably the smartest thing we could have done.
Chapter 16
I managed to flag a taxi as soon as I stepped out of my apartment building. The bad news was that it turned out to be a Prius — a great little car for the environment, with the emphasis on little. There was no time to look for another cab, so I jammed my six-foot frame into a backseat designed for five-footers, and we headed uptown.
I sat there, cramped, hungry, and fuming mad. I was pissed at Kylie for manipulating me the way she had, and I was even more pissed at myself for buying into it. The visual of a candlelit dinner gone south and the look on Cheryl’s face when I walked out the door was burned into my brain, and I tried to shake it out of my head.
The cabdriver didn’t say a word. I couldn’t blame him. Nothing says “keep your distance” like a nervous white guy dashing out of an Upper East Side apartment building and asking to be taken to a sketchy street corner in Harlem.
It was even sketchier than I expected. Harlem has changed dramatically in my lifetime. The stigma of street crime and urban decay has been replaced by trendy restaurants and designer boutiques, but the gentrification had not yet reached the corner of 129th and Park.
The avenue was dominated by the Metro-North train tracks that ran overhead. The street below was dotted by vacant lots, a fenced-in parking lot, and a combination BP station/twenty-four-hour food mart. The area around the pumps was well lit, and the driver pulled over and dropped me off there.
As soon as I squeezed my body out of the environmentally friendly little yellow box, I saw Kylie’s car parked on 129th Street. I got in the passenger side, and she started driving.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Baby D has several offices around town. One of them is a chicken-and-waffles place a few blocks away, on Lexington.”
“How’d you know where to find him?”
“Because I’m a cop, and my husband is an addict. I tailed Spence on a couple of his drug runs just in case anything like this ever happened.”
“You tailed him?”
“Don’t judge me, Zach.”
“Tell me about this Baby D,” I said.
“Real name is Damian Hillsborough. Forget everything you know about these stereotype ghetto dealers hanging on the street corner, covered in tats and chains, peddling eight balls, and packing nine mils. Baby D is clean-cut, college-educated, and totally nonthreatening. He’s carved out a nice little niche for himself in the upscale Caucasian market.”
“Does he have a rap sheet?”
“No. He’s smart. He did a year at NYU law school before dropping out to go into a more profitable line of work.”
“And what’s my role in all this?”
“I want you to score some blow. As soon as you make a buy, I’ll step in.”
“Sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Except for that nasty little entrapment law the defense attorneys love to throw in our faces.”
“I thought you were done lecturing.”
“Kylie, it’s not a lecture. It’s Police Procedure 101. I’ve worked undercover. The criminal has to initiate the offense. A cop can’t induce someone to commit a crime and then arrest him.”
“I didn’t say I was going to arrest him. I’m trying to find my husband, and I need some leverage.”
We got to 126th Street and Lexington Avenue, where there was a cluster of storefronts: a McDonald’s, a Dunkin’ Donuts, a check-cashing place with the corrugated metal gate pulled down and locked, and a yellow awning that said “Goody’s Chicken and Waffles.” We got out of the car and walked up to the window.
“That’s him over there, the one with the green sweater,” Kylie said, pointing at a young black man sitting alone at a table, his fingers resting on the keyboard of a laptop.
“You want my take on your plan?” I asked.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s piss-poor. You think this guy is going to sell me drugs? If he’s as smart as you say he is, he wouldn’t sell me an aspirin if I got hit by a bus.”
“Hey, I’m trying to figure this out as I go along. Do you have a better idea?”
“I’ve got something in my head, but it’s going to take two of us, and I don’t know if you’re up to it — it’s not going to be easy.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Zach. Of course I’m up to it. I’ll do whatever it takes. What’s your idea?”
“I’ll go inside the chicken place and work on Baby D. You stay outside.”
“And do what?”
“Nothing. Don’t call me. Don’t hand-signal me. And since I can’t stop you from watching me through the window, don’t barge in and tell me I’m doing it wrong.”
“So you just want me to hang outside and do nothing?”
“Hey, I told you it wouldn’t be easy. I’m going in. Don’t screw it up.”
She hesitated.
“Kylie, do you want my help or not?”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Do it.”
I walked through the front door of Goody’s before she had time to change her mind.
I had no plan, no idea what I was going to do. All I knew was that it would be a hell of a lot easier to do it without her.
Chapter 17
The first thing I noticed about Goody’s was how incredible it smelled. There were at least thirty people having dinner, and a few more at the counter, waiting to order.
Baby D was the only one not eating. And despite the fact that his fingers were resting on his keyboard, he was not typing. He was watching me.
Kylie was right. He didn’t look anything like the stereotypical drug peddler you see in the movies or, for that matter, in real life. He looked more like a model who had stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Tan chinos, tattersall shirt, and a V-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up past his wrists. He was about twenty-five, clean-shaven, and damn good-looking.
I walked up to his table.
“Good evening, officer,” he said.
“What makes you think I’m a cop?” I said.
“You don’t exactly fit the profile of the neighborhood clientele.”
“Neither do you,” I said.
“Point taken,” he said. “And what can I do for New York’s Finest this evening?”
He may just as well have said “Checkmate.” He had made me for a cop, he understood the laws of probable cause, and he knew there was nothing I could do except stand there like a rookie and ask him questions he didn’t have to answer. The smug look on his face said it all. I was his entertainment for the evening. I hated him.