French Kiss

Chapter 16

“Welcome to the Roaring Twenties,” I say to K. Burke as we enter Fitzgerald’s Bar and Grill, on East 68th Street.

“Not much roaring going on,” Burke says. The room is empty except for the bartender and one female customer.

The same girl I watched through the window earlier.

The lone woman at the bar is young. She’s blond. She’s pretty. And after we flash IDs and introduce ourselves as detectives with the NYPD, she’s also very frightened.

“Try to relax, miss,” says Burke. “There’s a problem, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re just hoping you can help us out.”

I’m astonished at the genuine sweetness in Detective Burke’s voice. The same voice that was just loud and stern with me is now soothing and gentle with the pretty blonde.

“Could you tell us your name, please?” I ask, trying to imitate Burke’s soft style.

“Laura,” she says. Her voice has a quiver of fear.

“What about a last name?” Burke asks.

“Jenkins,” says the girl. “Laura Jenkins.”

“Let’s see some ID,” I say.

The girl rustles around in her pocketbook and produces a laminated card. Burke doesn’t even look at it.

“You’re aware, Ms. Jenkins, that in the state of New York, showing a police officer false identification is a class D felony punishable by up to seven years in prison.”

Holy shit. I’m in awe of Burke. Sort of.

The girl slips the first card she removed from her purse back into it and hands over a second. It reads: LAURA DELARICO, 21 ARDSLEY ROAD, SCARSDALE, NEW YORK.

“What do you do for a living, Miss Delarico?” I ask.

“I’m a law student. That’s the truth. I go to Fordham. Here’s my student ID.” She holds up a third plastic identity card.

“Do you work?” I ask. “Perhaps part-time?”

“Sometimes I babysit. I do computer filing for one of the professors.”

“Look, Miss Delarico,” I say, raising my voice now. “This is serious business. Very serious. Detective Burke was being genuine when she said you have nothing to worry about. But that only happens if you help us out. So far, not good. Not good at all.”

Laura looks away, then back at me.

“We know that you work for a prostitution ring,” I continue. “A group that trades in high-priced call girls. We know it’s controlled by a Russian gang.”

Laura begins to cry. “But I’m a law student. Really.”

“A few days ago a female detective posing as a call girl was murdered. Somebody who meant a lot to me. We need your help.”

I pause. Not for dramatic effect but because I feel myself choking up, too.

Laura stops crying long enough to say, “It’s just something I’m doing for a little while. For the money. I live with my grandfather, and law school costs so much. If he ever found out…”

A few seconds pass.

Then K. Burke says, “Off the record.”

K. Burke is staring deep into Laura’s eyes. But Laura is frozen. No response.

“Let me show you something,” I say.

Laura looks suspicious. K. Burke looks confused. I reach into my side pocket. Next to my ID, next to the place where I kept the cash for Carl the doorman, are two small photographs. I take them out. One shows Maria Martinez on the police department’s Hudson River boat ride. I took that picture. The other shows Maria Martinez dead. It was taken by the coroner.

I show Laura the photos. Then she looks away.

Finally, she says, “Okay.”