“Where is Spence?” Kylie asked.
“Atlantic City. The Borgata. Room 1178.”
“Yesterday he was in a flophouse on the Bowery. He’s traded up. How did you find him?”
“My business is a lot like yours,” Q said. “We both cater to the rich and powerful. If Spence had been holed up in a warehouse down by the Holland Tunnel, I’d never know. But five minutes after he rolled into the hotel, I got two texts: one from a valet, another from a bellman. I asked Tanya, the young lady in the photo, to get visual confirmation. For the record, she’s not with him. She just worked him long enough to get the picture... in case you were wondering.”
“For the record,” Kylie said, “of course I was wondering. Thank you. It’s very reassuring. Maybe I can have a T-shirt made: ‘My Husband Isn’t Cheating. He’s Just on a Drug Bender.’”
“It appears that he’s upped his game. I have it from a trusted source that the paperboy hooked him up with Aunt Hazel.”
There’s a vast lexicon of street terms the illegal drug trade uses to shroud their activity in mystery. New code names pop up every day, but the maiden aunts have been around for decades. Aunt Mary is marijuana, Aunt Nora is cocaine, but Aunt Hazel is the most deadly of them alclass="underline" heroin.
“I’m sorry to be the messenger of such dire tidings,” Q said, “but at least you know where he is — for now. If I were you, I’d get down there in a hurry.”
“A hurry?” Kylie said. “Atlantic City is a six-hour round-trip.”
“Not if you’ve got lights, sirens, and you push the needle to triple digits.”
“The department tends to frown on cops who use the company car to resolve their marital issues,” Kylie said. “I appreciate your help, but I can’t leave the city for that big a chunk of time.”
“How about if I have Rodrigo expedite things for you?”
“Expedite?” Kylie said. “Because nothing says ‘loving wife’ like having someone stuff your husband into the trunk of a Benz and hauling him a hundred miles up the Jersey Turnpike.”
Q laughed. “I forgot how your cop brain works. I was just offering to get you there by helicopter. NYC to ACY in thirty-seven minutes.”
“You own a—” Kylie twirled a finger in the air.
“Let’s just say I have access. My employees are on call 24/7, so I can hardly rely on public transportation. Besides, it’s an amenity my clientele are happy to pay for.”
“Your clients have the five grand it costs to be airlifted to hooker heaven,” Kylie said. “I can’t afford that kind of happiness.”
Q did his best to look offended. “Please — since when has our relationship ever been sullied with talk of money? The ride is a gift.”
“If you take your mom up for a spin, it’s a gift. If you take a cop, it’s a bribe. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Damn it, Kylie, I do you favors; you do me favors. That’s the basis of our relationship. I’m helping you track down a drug addict. Someday you’ll pay me back. Straight-up quid pro quo. Why change the rules now?” He turned to me. “Zach, talk some sense into this girl.”
“Only if you tell me what’s going on,” I said.
Q gave me a blank stare. “What are you talking about? Nothing’s going on. I’m trying to help your partner out.”
“You did help her. You found her husband. This is where you would normally walk away. But you’re still helping. So I have to ask myself: why is Q so invested in getting Kylie to Atlantic City that he’s willing to fly her there at his own expense? The only answer I can come up with is there’s something in it for you. Would you like to share that with us?”
“Okay, full disclosure. I’m hosting a party at the Borgata this weekend. My best customers: seven oil dudes from Texas, all white, all married, and they love the ladies of color. Money is no object. All they care about is privacy — I don’t even know their real names. Sunday morning they pay me in cash and fly home. It’s a huge payday, and I’m afraid Spence could fuck it up.”
“How?”
“Because he’s a big-time TV producer and a cop’s husband. If he’s found dead in a bed, that hotel will turn into a media circus, and my camera-shy cowboys will pull the plug on the party before it starts. Can you help me out?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Step out of the car so Kylie and I can talk.”
I didn’t have to ask twice.
“Do you want to take a personal day and drive down there now?” I said to Kylie as soon as we were alone.
“No. I’m done putting Spence’s addiction ahead of my career. I’ll punch out at six, rent a car, and be back by morning. You stay and cover for me.”
“It would be a lot faster if you went by chopper.”
“I’ve done a lot of stupid things, Zach, but I’ve never taken a bribe.”
“It’s not a bribe,” I said. “Q is our best CI. He just gave us Raymond Davis and Teddy Ryder. Like he said, quid pro quo. We can’t give him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but we can help him eliminate a minor business annoyance. We both fly down tonight. I help you drag Spence’s sorry ass to a rehab, and if our phone rings, we’re only thirty-seven minutes away. Win-win.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “I’ve created a monster. You’re starting to think like me.”
“It sounds like you and I are in violent agreement.”
“Hell, yeah,” she said, a broad grin spreading across her face.
It was the first time I’d seen her smile since she kicked Seth Penzig in the balls. Things were starting to look up.
Chapter 47
Annie Ryder knew better than to burden her son with too many facts. What she failed to tell Teddy was that Tow Truck Bob was also known as Lieutenant Robert Beatty, U.S. Marines — a lone-wolf sniper who had taken out high-profile targets in Lebanon, Somalia, and Nicaragua, plus in a few top secret locations known only to a handful of generals and their commander in chief, Jimmy Carter.
Jeremy might look like a candy-ass, but he’d already murdered Raymond Davis and barely missed killing Teddy. Annie wasn’t taking any chances. Bob didn’t know any of the details, but if Jeremy had thoughts about going after her, he’d have to get past 260 pounds of muscle, grit, and combat training.
Bob pulled the Jeep into the Edison ParkFast on Essex Street, and the unlikely couple walked around the corner and one block west to 205 East Houston.
They’d already gone over the logistics. Annie went in first. As soon as she walked through the door, she inhaled the intoxicating aromas of corned beef, matzo ball soup, chopped liver, and artery-clogging pastrami that Buddy had said was worth risking his life for.
Katz’s Deli was one of New York’s most popular tourist attractions — a mecca for foodies of every stripe. For Annie it was the perfect drop spot. There was safety in numbers, and with the lunchtime crowd streaming in, she would be just another anonymous old lady to be ignored.
She went to the counter and ordered Teddy’s lunch to go, along with knoblewurst on rye and a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda for herself. She found a table in the rear and watched as Bob entered, bought a sandwich, and took a seat twenty feet away from her.
Jeremy showed up at noon on the dot. He bypassed the counter, scanned the room, spied Annie, and sat down at her table.
“Let’s do this fast,” he said, unslinging a canvas messenger bag from his shoulder and setting it on the floor. “The money is all here. You can check to see if it’s real, but don’t ask if you can take it into the ladies’ room to count it.”