Random in Death, page 26
Badging him improved her mood, marginally.
“It sits where I put it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got the word.”
Which meant the golden tower belonged to Roarke.
“Nobody dead inside, is there?”
“Not that I know of.”
She beat him to the door and entered a lobby as sleek as the exterior. Muted gold here, veining through the black marble floors. Flowers cascaded in snowy white from an urn on a central table.
A black desk trimmed in gold was tucked into the back wall with a backdrop of water sliding down a reflective surface in glittering streams.
A woman with white-blond hair in a short, severely angled cut smiled.
“Welcome to the Gilded Tower. How may I help you?”
A single, ink-black eyebrow shot up at Eve’s badge.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I didn’t recognize you initially. What can I do for you and Detective Peabody?”
“Allisandra Charro.”
“Ms. Charro is a resident. I believe the thirty-eighth floor. Let me check for you, but I don’t believe she’s in at the moment. Yes, 3802. I believe she left this morning just after ten, and as far as I know hasn’t returned. Should I call up?”
“Appreciate it.”
“Happy to help. No, she doesn’t answer. Ms. Charro is rarely in this time of day. Her business keeps her quite busy.”
“Do you have any idea where she went, or when she’ll be back?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. Occasionally she returns before the end of my shift, at five. But more often I only see her in the morning when she leaves. I do have a ’link number, in the event we need to contact her.”
Save us time accessing it, Eve thought. “We could use that.”
The clerk took a card from her slot, selected a pen, and neatly wrote the name and number on the back.
“In the event you’re unable to reach her and she returns, should I give her a message?”
“Card, Peabody. It’s very important she contact me as soon as possible.”
“I’ll certainly relay that, or see that my colleague does so if she doesn’t return before I leave. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“You did fine. Thanks.”
Outside under the silent scowl of the doorman, Eve pulled out her ’link. She made the tag from the sidewalk as pedestrians swam by.
“This is Allisandra.” She all but sang it.
“Ms. Charro, Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
“So I see on the display. What can I do for you, Lieutenant Dallas?”
“Alan Stuben tasseled loafers, size six and a half, brown leather.”
Charro’s narrow face, wide brown eyes, perfect red lips all showed only bafflement. “You’d like me to purchase a pair of Stubens for you?”
“No, I want to know who you bought them for in March.”
“Well, a shiny personal dream dulls. When I saw the display I thought, at last, Dallas wants me to dress her.”
“I like handling that myself. The Stubens.”
“Lieutenant, I can’t possibly tell you that off the top of my head. Last March? Months ago. And I do have a long list of clients. I’m good at what I do.”
“How many teenage boys do you shop for?”
“More accurately, I’m shopping for their parent for them, but quite a number. Teenage boys, particularly, rarely enjoy shopping. Parents who can afford me would rather pay out than drag said teenage boy through the shops. The dragging through rarely ends well.”
“I wouldn’t know, but I need a name.”
“I’ll look it up when I get back to my office and my records. I’m in New Jersey, with a client. I should be leaving within the hour.”
“He’s short, around five-six. Caucasian.”
“I’d tell you if I could. Why wouldn’t I? Very often I don’t see the teenager or child, just have measurements, sizes, and so on. It varies. If alterations are needed, they have their own tailor, or I arrange one.”
“You bought him five pair of Stubens on that single trip in March.”
Charro gave her a long look. “Again, I can’t tell you.”
“You buy his clothes, too. Conservative, button-down clothes.”
“Given the Stubens, I’d expect so. Private schools, which many of my clients patronize, often have strict dress codes, if they don’t require specific uniforms. I dress a great many young men between thirteen and nineteen.”
“He’s about sixteen.”
“Lieutenant, I understand this is important, honestly. But the longer you keep me on this ’link trying to jog something I can’t possibly jog, the longer it’ll be until I can finish here and come back to check my records.”
Damn it, Eve thought. She was right.
“Contact me as soon as you have the information.”
Eve clicked off.
“Damn it! She’s the conduit. I know it.”
“We may be close, but I don’t see we’ve got probable cause for a warrant to get into her place and go through the records ourselves.”
“No. Let’s get back to Central. We’re going to get that face, and we’re going to get a name. We’ll start pushing on where else Charro does her personal shopping. High-end venues that carry clothes in his size.”
An hour, she’d said, and Yancy would need at least that.
So they’d keep at the job until.
Chapter Nineteen
She’d barely pulled away from the curb when she spotted the street thief and his oblivious target. The woman with a tower of gold-streaked red hair and a rat-sized dog on a leash carried three shopping bags. She wore mile-high pink heels with tiny grass-green polka dots and a tiny dress that reversed the color scheme. She’d gone with a white purse smothered in polka dots of both colors.
She wore it cross-body, but it bumped carelessly behind her left hip while she chatted away on her sparkly purple ’link.
She might as well have added a sign saying: PICK ME!
Eve watched the thief, casual walk, long, many-pocketed vest over black baggies and a black tee, slide by her.
He continued his casual walk. She continued to mince (it seemed to fit) in the opposite direction. Her purse no longer bumped at the back of her hip.
She figured people who could afford all those polka dots could afford to buy a clue. But.
Impulse had her swinging back toward the curb.
“Take the wheel.”
Stunned, Peabody looked up from her PPC. “What—”
She didn’t have time for more before Eve leaped out of the car.
The thief, not nearly as oblivious as Ms. Polka Dot, snapped his head around. Recognizing he was now a target, he changed the casual walk to a full-out run.
Eve pointed at the cranky doorman, then at the purse-less woman about to turn toward the building, then at the Running Man.
He might have been cranky, but he’d obviously bought a few clues in his time, and nodded.
“Get ’em, sister!”
Long legs stretched; good boots slapped the pavement. She felt her muscles sing a happy tune as she ran in the blazing summer sun.
He had some moves, she noted, and he had speed.
But then, so did she, and she wasn’t weighed down—right side interior vest pocket—by a polka-dot purse and whatever treasures it held.
For form because, hell, he already knew, she shouted, “Police!”
That turned a few heads, but her quarry kicked it into the next gear.
So did she.
She caught him in front of an Italian bistro where people sat under big umbrellas drinking wine, nibbling on pasta, or drinking coffee out of thimble-sized cups.
She grabbed his arm, blocked his instinctive and wild swing.
He panted like a horse after a hard gallop, and his face shined, red as a pickled beet, with sweat.
“Okay, you got me.” He rasped it out as he sank down to sit on the sidewalk. “Frog-jumping Jesus, I haven’t had to run like that in years.”
On closer inspection, Eve judged him as solidly in his sixties. “You’ve still got some fast feet.”
He shook his head. “Not like I used to. Back when, I was lightning.”
“Maybe time to find another line of work.”
Now he shrugged. “It’s what I got. Hey, any way I can get some water?”
“You run again, you know I’ll catch you.”
“I’m done.”
She signaled a waitress, who looked right, left, then pointed to herself.
“Yeah, you. Get this guy some water and call for the beat cops. Lieutenant Dallas.” She pointed at herself, then the wheezing man on the sidewalk. “Purse snatcher.”
“You’re Dallas? Heard of you.” The thief slapped his hands to the side of his head and shook it. “Shit, shit, shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.”
He continued to pant and wheeze, but his color faded down to pink so she figured she wouldn’t have to send for MTs.
The waitress brought the water in a fancy glass with ice. Thinking what a world, Eve took it, then crouched down.
“You did me a favor. I needed some stress relief and the run did it. I’m going to forget the swing.”
He gulped water. “Appreciate that.” He sighed. “I mean, did you see the mark? A walking ad for Pinch My Purse Please.”
While she couldn’t disagree, Eve thought better than to vocalize it.
“Let’s have it.”
He drained the water, handed the empty glass to Eve, who handed it back to the hovering waitress.
He took the polka-dot bag and a gold bracelet studded with pink and green stones out of the right interior pocket of the vest.
She’d missed the bracelet.
Yeah, he still had some moves.
“Is that it?”
He spread his vest open. “I already passed on today’s take. You know, I was just stretching my legs before I headed home, thinking maybe I’d stop for an Italian ice. Frigging hot one. Then I spotted Polka Dot Queen. I mean, she was like a frigging billboard. Bad luck. But at least I got bagged by a serious cop. Lloyd Mesner.”
He offered a hand. Amused, Eve took it, then hauled him to his feet as a pair of beat cops hustled their way.
She dealt with it, had them log the bag and the bracelet as returned to owner. Then walked the block and a half back to the apartment building.
Peabody stood at the door with the doorman.
“She’s waiting in the lobby,” Peabody told her.
No longer cranky, the doorman grinned at Eve. “You got some legs on you, sister.”
“That’s Lieutenant Sister,” she said, and went inside.
The redhead sat with the rat dog in her lap and shopping bags at her feet. She sipped pale, straw-colored wine out of a fancy glass.
“Ma’am,” Eve began.
“Oh my God, my purse! The strap! The strap’s broken.”
Snipped, Eve thought. Quick and slick.
“I just bought that purse last week! Do you know how much that purse cost?”
“No, ma’am, but I need you to identify same, and the contents and this bracelet, as—”
“My bracelet!” The screech hit a register that made Eve’s ears ring. “Is it damaged?”
“I don’t believe so. If you’d note down the property, as yours, returned to you, and sign.” Eve held out her PPC.
“I can’t be bothered with that. I’m far too upset. I have to have my purse repaired now, and it’s brand-new!”
She rose with the wine, the dog, clutching the purse under her arm. “Have my bags sent up,” she snapped at the desk clerk. “I’m very upset.”
Eve watched her mince her way to the elevator. “You’re welcome,” she called out.
She pulled out her communicator as she walked back to the doors. “Let him go. That’s right, the mark won’t take the time to file a report. I’m not wasting mine. Put him on a minute. Yeah, I said put him on. Lloyd? Learn a lesson. You’re too old for this. Dallas out.”
She went out where Peabody and the doorman—Kyle—held a conversation about carpentry.
Apparently, Kyle’s father made his living with that particular skill, but Kyle never got a handle on it.
“If you see that guy again—Lloyd Mesner—tell him Dallas is watching.”
“Can do.”
“One thing? The Polka Dot Woman: Is she always a fuckhead, or was it just today’s trauma?”
Kyle’s lips twitched. “I shouldn’t say, seeing as building policy is never gossip about guests. But taking that as an official inquiry? Always.”
“Figured.” Eve walked back to the car. When Peabody got in, Eve sighed contentedly. “Well, that was fun.”
“You jump out in the street, tell me to take the wheel when you zoom off like a rocket.” She paused. “Actually, it was fun.”
Eve glanced at her wrist unit as she drove. “Didn’t take long. Charro’s still in New Jersey, Yancy’s working with Kiki and David. We head back, try the shop angle. If Charro’s got as many clients as she says, we should get some hits.
“How does it work? The personal shopping gig?”
“I’ve never had the wonder and privilege of trying it on either side. I’ll see what Charro does.”
Peabody took out her PPC, reading as they traveled downtown.
“For a new client, she does a consultation—no charge—in their home or place of business. She’ll also do remote consults. She verifies sizes, measurements, blah blah. I can click on a form here—a sample it looks like—dealing with colors, styles, lifestyle, price points, fabrics, hobbies, career, travel. Lots of stuff.”
“By the time you do all that, you could just go out and buy what the hell you wanted.”
“The idea is she gets to know you. You know, the personal in personal shopper. She brings a selection to you. Just want a suit? Fine. Want an entire seasonal wardrobe? Also fine. She sets it all up, helps you put pieces together, brings accessories, and if desired, jewelry selections with bonded security. Items are charged to her business account, or borrowed. Once the selections are made, she charges the client for the purchases, adds her fee. Travel expenses additional if outside Manhattan.”
“What’s the fee?”
“Ten percent of purchase—with a grand as minimum.”
“I’m betting she gets that from the venues, too. You bet your ass she does from venues she uses regularly.”
“I bet you’re right. At least a ten percent discount on what she buys for clients, or herself. Think about it. She buys those five pair of Stubens. That’s over seven K right there, one stop. She gets seven hundred and change from the venue, and another seven from the client. That’s a solid fifteen hundred, more depending, for one stop. Then she writes off her travel, car service, cab fare, whatever she uses.”
Peabody sat back. “If I ever turn in my papers, I want this gig. Oh wow! She’ll travel with clients—at their expense, natch. Paris, Milan, London, Tokyo, and more, and she’ll arrange private showings from designers on request.”
Eve pulled into the garage. “Let’s find out where she shops for teenage boys who dress like old, clueless accountants who never get laid.”
That made Peabody snicker on the way to the elevator.
“It’s no wonder he doesn’t know how to shop for himself, how to buy things that make him look like a regular teenager. He’s probably never shopped for himself, or on his own.”
As they got in the elevator, Peabody tapped her PPC. “Charro provides her services for babies, toddlers, and on up the scale.”
“How long has she been doing this?”
“Oh, right. Let’s see.” Working, Peabody shuffled back as the elevator stopped for more cops. “Okay, eleven years, with another six working in the industry in other capacities.”
After the third stop, Eve pushed out for the glides.
“Start with specialty venues. Men’s shops that carry boys’ wear. Shops geared to teens, but upscale. Then department stores, high-end. Large purchases. Would he still be growing?”
“Maybe. Pretty sure he would’ve been last year, the year before.”
“We look at that. Five pair of shoes at one go, figure that wardrobe deal, or a chunk of it. Button-down shirt. If you’re buying a button-down shirt, you might as well buy half a dozen, different colors.”
Peabody pointed an accusatory finger. “You know more about shopping than you admit.”
“No, that’s buying, and efficient. Efficient means she makes more profit. The client wants conservative, button-down shirts. You provide. Trousers, same deal. No baggies, no skin pants, maybe, possibly some sweats, but again, high-end. Black, gray, brown, tan, nothing outside the lines.”
“I got it.”
When she walked into the bullpen, she spotted Quilla sitting on the edge of Jenkinson’s desk. And she smelled brownies.
Quilla pushed up, offered an easy and innocent smile.
Eve jerked her thumb toward her office for Quilla, then, eyes narrowed, pointed at Jenkinson.
He shrugged and brushed brownie crumbs off his irradiated rabbits.
“I did not give you the go on interviews with my squad.”
“I wasn’t. We were just talking. I heard he got a promotion.”
“So you brought him brownies.”
“I brought enough for everybody. Well, except you and Peabody, because, man, they wolfed.”
Molded by Nadine, Eve thought.
“Quilla, I don’t have time for this, or you.”
“You weren’t even here, and I just came down after I finished my interviews in EDD.” Quilla pushed at her purple hair. “Well, I still have to put it all together, edit, work on the narration, polish, but—”
“Quilla, go away.”
“But wait. I heard how you found where he got the shoes.”
“That’s not for public consumption.”
“I know that.” That earned a double eye roll. “Jeez. Like I’d blab about it so he gets to kill more girls. So I was talking to Mouser—you know, Dorian’s friend, the new kid.”
“You talked to him about official police business?”
“It wasn’t blabbing. I wanted his, like, expert opinion. He was on the street longer than me. Longer than anybody I know. He knows stuff. And I talked to Jamie about it.”
