They Disappeared

42

Morningside Heights, New York City

“Here we go.” Brewer grunted to Klaver.

The bar was at the fringe of the park, not all that far from where Omarr Aimes had lived with his grandmother and daughter.

Brewer and Klaver had used the flimsy lead they’d gotten from Sheri Dalfini on her husband’s last movements with Aimes to mine the NYPD databases. Then they hit the street and worked their confidential informants until they got a name.

Florence Payne.

When they ran her name, they learned that she was also known as Mary Ballard, and, according to their sources, was one of the last people to see Omarr Aimes alive.

Looking deeper into her files they learned about her troubles and that Florence was also known as “Miss Tangiers,” an exotic dancer at the Cold Room, the bar with a strip club in the basement.

Word was that Florence was performing tonight.

It was 1:35 a.m. when the detectives entered the bar.

The joint had vinyl seats patched with duct tape, scarred hardwood floors and chipped brick walls. The basement smelled of beer, drain cleaner and cheap cologne. A bony naked girl twirled around a pole while Tom Jones sang “What’s New, Pussycat?”

This is where dreams come to die, Brewer thought.

“We’re looking for ‘Miss Tangiers,’” Klaver said to a waiter, a man with no neck who was built like a fridge. His droopy eyes rolled to Klaver’s badge, then he nodded to the hall and the dressing rooms.

“Number three,” the waiter said.

The door for number three bore many fractures.

Brewer knocked twice.

“Next show’s in fifteen minutes.” A woman’s voice was muffled.

“NYPD, Florence, open up!” Brewer said.

A silence, then a curse before a toilet flushed.

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You obstructing us, Florence? Want to dance in a cell tonight?”

Another curse before the lock clicked. The door cracked as wide as six inches of chain would allow. A pair of almond eyes stared up at Brewer.

“We need to talk to you about Omarr Aimes.”

“Who?”

Brewer had cued up a photo of Aimes and held up his cell phone.

“Oh, Sweet Time.”

“Yeah, Sweet Time. Open up.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“Listen up. We can take you downtown right now!”

“That’s a lie!”

“It seems your ex says you violated his visitation rights to see your daughter, Trinity. Something about not showing up, disrespecting the terms of what was ordered by the family court judge.”

“That is so much bull-fucking-shit.”

“Seems he filed a petition with the court and you failed to show at the hearing.”

“He’s a drunk and a deadbeat who hasn’t paid a damn penny in child support. What is the court doing about my violation petition? Are you going to help me with that? Jesus, why’re you getting in my face like this? It’s because of him I gotta work here. All my money goes to lawyers. I’m just trying to make a better life for me and my baby girl.”

“Get some clothes on,” Brewer said. “We’ll talk outside in the fresh air.”

“But I got a show in ten minutes.”

“Let’s go now, Florence,” Brewer said.

She closed the door, bustled about the room before emerging in a full-length leather coat with her bag, leading them out the back to the alley. She rummaged through her bag, produced a cigarette and lighter. A flame flickered. She inhaled deeply, leaned against the stone wall, hugged herself and blew a stream of smoke skyward.

“When was the last time you were with Omarr?” Brewer asked her.

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“You’re not under arrest.”

“Then we’re done.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done,” Brewer said. “You know about Omarr.”

“That he’s dead, yeah. Bummer.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I didn’t kill him, unless dancing on his crotch is a crime.”

A bright light suddenly stung her eyes.

“Hey! What the fuck!”

Klaver had a flashlight aimed at her.

“You stoned, Florence? That could be a violation,” Brewer said. “You want us to take you downtown, jam you up?”

She was shaking her head to avert the light.

“No, fuck you.”

“How about a little cooperation?”

“Shut that thing off.”

The light went out.

“Now, when was the last time you were with Omarr?”

“The night before they found him dead.”

“Where? What did you do?”

“He came to the bar. He’s a regular. I danced for him. He hired me for overtime. We went to my girlfriend’s place. I did him all night for five hundred and he left in the morning. There, we’re done.” She dropped her cigarette and stubbed it. “I have to go.”

“Not so fast,” Brewer said. “When he came to the bar, was he alone or with anyone else?”

“He was alone.”

Klaver glanced over at Brewer. They knew Aimes had a prepaid cell phone. They couldn’t trace any of his calling history, nor could they find it.

“When you were with him, did he make or receive any calls on his cell phone?”

She said nothing.

“Think, Florence. Think.”

“One. He took one call when he was with me.”

“What did he say, who was he talking to?”

“How the hell should I know? Some shit about a job for some guy.”

Brewer exhaled slowly, struggling to hang on to his patience.

“We see from your file with the court that you’re studying to be a court reporter.”

“I told you I was trying to get out of the life, any law against it?”

“You have to have a good memory for that line of work. Prove to us that you have a good memory, Florence, and maybe we can help you.”

Florence looked at Brewer, considered his offer and blew smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Think about the conversation Omarr had-it was hours before he was killed. Can you remember anything about his end of it?”

The back door to the bar opened, a man’s silhouette filled the doorway.

“Get your ass on the stage, Miss Tangiers!”

Brewer flashed his badge, Klaver revealed his holstered gun. “Police business, back off!” Brewer said.

The man retreated, muttering.

“Think about that call, Florence.”

“He was talking to some guy. It maybe had something to do with making a movie, picking something up for him. I don’t know. He sounded like he was talking about what they were going to do near Times Square. Then after he hung up he called somebody else and says that some guy named Zeta, or Rama, some crazy Albanian or Russian, got a job for them. Big easy money.”

As Klaver wrote it down, Brewer pressed further.

“This Zeta, or Rama, you hear him say anything else about him?”

“No, nothing. I swear that’s all I heard. Look, Omarr wasn’t there to talk, you know.”

Brewer and Klaver let a moment pass.

“We’re going to need you to come downtown and make a statement.”

“But I have one more show.”

“We’ll talk to your boss.”

“And you’ll help me, right?”

“If your information checks out.”