French Kiss

Chapter 17

Prostitutes don’t keep traditional hours.

Laura Delarico tells us that she’s “on call” at Fitzgerald’s for another thirty minutes. She’s certain she’ll be free by late afternoon. “Even if I do get a client,” she says, “I’ll be in and out quickly.” (No, I don’t think she was trying to be funny.)

I suggest that Laura, K. Burke, and I meet at Balthazar, where a person can get a decent steak frites and a pleasant glass of house Burgundy. “This will put everyone at ease,” I say.

K. Burke suggests that we schedule an interview at the precinct this evening. “This is an investigation, Moncrief, not happy hour. Plus, I’m going to that meeting with Vice.”

Because proper police procedure always trumps a good idea, at six o’clock the three of us are sitting in an interrogation room at the precinct.

Laura is surprisingly interested in the surroundings. The bile-colored green walls, the battered folding chairs, the crushed empty cans of Diet Coke on the table. I don’t think I’m wrong in thinking that Laura is also interested in me.

“So this is, like, where you bring murderers, drug dealers, and…okay, prostitutes?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “But today is strictly informal, off the record. No recordings, no cameras, but as much of the cold tan sludge my colleagues call coffee as you can drink.”

Laura is wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and a gold necklace with the name Laura on it. She could be a barista at Starbucks or a salesgirl at the Gap or, yes, a law student.

“We’re very glad that you agreed to try to help us,” K. Burke begins.

Laura interrupts: “Listen. I don’t think I want to do this anymore. I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“That would not be a good idea,” I say. My goal is not to sound threatening, merely disappointed.

“We’re counting on you,” K. Burke says. Where does she hide that beautiful soothing voice?

“I don’t think there’s much I can tell you,” Laura says. “I get a call. I turn a trick. That’s how it goes.”

“Tell us anything,” I say.

“Anything?” Laura says. Her voice is suddenly loud, suddenly scared. “Like what? What does ‘anything’ mean? What I ate for lunch? What classes I went to? Anything?”

The conversation needs K. Burke’s smooth-as-silk voice. Here it comes.

“Maria Martinez was found murdered on Tuesday,” K. Burke says. “Were you working Tuesday morning or Monday night?”

Laura closes her eyes. Her lips curl with disgust. She spits out three little words: “Paulo the Pig.”

Burke and I are, of course, confused. I picture a cartoon character in a Spanish children’s television program.

But Laura repeats it, this time with even more venom. “Paulo the Pig.”

“That’s a person, I assume,” Burke says.

“A person who deserves his nickname. If you’re a girl on call and you get assigned to Paulo the Pig, you never forget it.”

Her hands shake a bit. Her eyes begin to water.

“That’s where I was the night your friend was murdered. I was with Paulo. Paulo Montes.”

“Tell us, Laura,” I say. “We need to know what happened that night with you and Paulo. Everything you remember. You’re safe with us.”

Her story is disgusting.