Chapter 1 – A Walk in the Park
A storm had raged all that week. A nor’easter, coming from the cold black Atlantic, up the coast, riding hard through the wilds of Long Island to beat at the windows of Manhattan. In its wake, it left an almost uncomfortably clear sky above the city.
Margaret Van Hall (Peggy to her friends) and her nervous beau stood on the overlook where 52nd street met the East River, looking up at the bruise purple sky. Over the river, as the sun dipped down for the evening, Venus and the North Star were visible, as well as the fingernail sliver of the moon.
Peggy’s boyfriend was called Joel, and he was already pre-med. She had just graduated high school, so while their hand-holding was acceptable, the various other thoughts that ran around in their heads were far from. Still, the streets were empty, and they weren’t going to do anything stupid, or so she thought.
The east end of 52nd street was capped by a cobblestone roundabout and a three-foot wall. Beyond the wall was a twenty-foot drop. A long stone stairway led down, accessible by a wrought iron gate in the south corner of the wall. Below was a small park, a smaller dog run, and beyond was the FDR Drive and the slate gray of the East River.
Joel’s hand was sweaty, and his charms awkward but potent. “Wanna go down to the park?” His voice was a bit high and eager.
She demurred, looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes. “The park is closed after dusk,” she reminded him.
He looked up at the sky. “Well, the sun is still setting. It’s still totally mid-dusk. It should be okay for a little while. I mean, if you want,” he said with a shrug.
She smiled down at her Mary Janes. “I guess, if you want.”
They walked down the cracked stone steps, fingers brushing the ivy-covered wall.
Across the river, on the Queens side, was the big neon red Pepsi Cola sign, both timeless and artificially retro.
There was still a chill in the air, but as usual, Peggy wore a short dress with no tights or stockings, so as the wind came in from the river, she shivered, and her long thin legs were covered in goosebumps. She had on her red pea coat, and a Burberry scarf, and her hair was in a neat ponytail with perfectly even bangs.
She was fresh-faced and cute, slightly chubby-cheeked with a blush from the river wind and the way Joel looked at her.
By the time the lovebirds got down to the park, the sun had disappeared completely, and the storm-cleansed sky shone with the smattering of stars.
Joel looked dashing, with his slightly disheveled brown hair and untucked Oxford button-down and sweater. He held her close when she shivered and smiled a crooked smile.
It was that moment, when time slowed down, and you let your body take over. Peggy half closed her eyes and let her lips go soft. She looked up at him, and he moved down a little, and their faces turned slightly, like two space vessels spinning to dock, and then they were kissing, and everything was wonderful and slightly wet and salty and perfect.
When they parted, the cold air made their moist lips tingle, and they both smiled.
When the rock hit Joel on the side of the head, time seemed to slow again, like during their kiss. And like the kiss, it made Peggy’s heart race, but this time her eyes were open wide, and where there was once love, there was now only confusion.
Then, in an instant, time started moving very quickly. There was a large man in a ski mask and a long overcoat. He was running at them. His hand was huge and felt like steel when he hit Peggy in the chest and pushed her to the ground.
The air left her as her back hit the cold stone. Then the back of her head hit the ground, and the world spun and went black.
She could hear it, though, the dull horrible sound of Joel being hit again and again. The animal-like whimpers and cries and finally gurgles.
Peggy closed her eyes tight, not wanting to see, scared to her core that she was next. The darkness and the pain in the back of her head grew and grew until there was nothing.
Chapter 2 – The Dandy Detective
Vermouth was the devil’s business, and Jay Valentine knew it well, but the honey-lipped girls at the club demanded Manhattans, and who was he to refuse them?
The weight of the night before was sitting on his head, and not in the pleasant way one of those girls briefly did. It was eight in the morning, and he fumbled for the glass he kept near his bed and sweet merciful aspirin. His mouth was a desert, his stomach a cavern.
He got up, cursed the light, and then showered, shaved, completed his morning ablutions, and went to the mirror.
The shaman is said to inhabit two worlds simultaneously, the physical world and the spirit world. Valentine was perhaps not as gifted as a shaman, but he also skirted two very different universes; Harlem and the Upper East Side.
His apartment was sizable, but mired in the depths of Spanish Harlem, which in the early Aughts were a bit rough. It was the best he could afford, though, and a mere half-mile from the Upper East Side and all of its fortunes.
He slipped on a sky blue dress shirt, his herringbone tweed suit, all grays and blues, and browns and charming British allure, a somewhat fat paisley tie of navy and gold. He added a gold tie clip and cufflinks, and something one of the aforementioned honey-lipped girls had left in his kitchen; a small half-wilted carnation for his lapel.
He tended to his hair until the man he wanted to present to the world looked back at him in the mirror. A somewhat short man, perhaps a little more padded in the middle than he would like, but charming in a red-cheeked jovial fey sort of way. Mixed European and Caribbean heritage. An overdressed gent of not immediately discernible ethnicity, who looked a bit out of time. All was in place, and the dandy detective character and caricature he had invented years before was alive and well in his reflection.
Valentine was never bothered in the neighborhood, though it did have an air of danger. This was because he tipped well and helped old ladies with their groceries, and it was well-known that he carried a gun. He didn’t actually carry it on most days, but there were occasions when he did, and Valentine didn’t stifle the rumor.
He enjoyed brisk walks in the fall, and the ten blocks south always seemed to set his mind in the right direction. There was a line there, between Spanish Harlem and the Upper East Side. The line was fluid, moving over the years, but not invisible. You could see it in the stores, where Pharmacia became Pharmacy and bodegas became delis.
His appointment was for coffee with one Melody Ann Wainwright, daughter of Harold Wainwright, of Meyer, Burton, and Wainwright, one of those law firms that tried both desperately and successfully never to go to court.
Valentine went over the notes he had jotted down in his little black leather notebook and considered the best approach. There had been a murder. He’d seen that much on the news.
Two rich kids on a date, someone came out of nowhere and hit one of them on the head with a rock. Bad date. He was dead, and she was most likely cursed with a fear of rocks and/or dates that it would take a lot of therapy to cure.
The murder wasn’t his case, obviously, that was for the police.
Melody, the one he had the meeting with, wasn’t the girl on the news, nor was she dead. What she was, was in her early twenties, auburn-haired, clear-eyed, tall, astute, and dressed with the simple elegance of someone born to money.
She waited for him in a pretty patisserie. A doily-laden pastel place that smelled of strong coffee and croissants, both of which Valentine was in dire need of.
Melody wore a soft thick gray sweater, designer jeans, and what looked like handmade riding boots. It was in the quality of her clothes, the healthy glow of her skin, her perfect hair, and her perfect teeth. She was flawless and beautiful, and a bit worried.
He sat down and didn’t take off his coat.
“Mr. Valentine, thank you for meeting me,” she said with a practiced smile that didn’t hide the worry in her eyes.
“Of course,” he said politely, though he was rather intensely calling for the waiter, psychically. The waiter appeared. Latte and croissant. Butter and jam. The lady would have a scone.
“My cousin, well, actually, I’m somewhat related to both Peggy and Joel in one way or another, but that’s not important. Joel had some things on his phone that I need. More importantly, I need them not to get out,” she said carefully, but also very directly.
“Do I need to know what these things are, or shall we just leave it at ‘things you don’t want to get out?’”
There was a flicker in her eyes. Valentine felt her judge him, what he looked like, what she had heard about it.
Jay Valentine was a private detective, with an emphasis on the private. Not “is the Help stealing the China,” more like “find the China the Help stole and get it back before anyone figures out it is missing.”
That missing thing could also be a sum of money or someone’s daughter.
“It is sexual in nature,” Melody said flatly. Jay showed no real reaction to that.
Their breakfast arrived.
“Do you know who currently has the phone?” he asked as he buttered his croissant and sweetened his latte.
“The police, I assume,” she said, sipping her own beverage, which Valentine assumed from the rose color was some kind of tea.
“Is the information readily accessible on the phone?” he asked.
She considered that. “From what I know of Joel, probably not. Though someone IT savvy or a forensics sort could probably find it.”
“Given the apparent facts in the crime, that may happen at some point,” he assessed. Her smile soured.
“What kind of phone is it?” he asked, sipping his coffee.
The coffee wasn’t great. They didn’t clean their machines enough, in his opinion.
“I’m not positive, but it wasn’t an iPhone. Joel liked gadgets he could fiddle with. Android something or other.”
He nodded and sipped his coffee again.
“Is this something you think you are capable of?” She asked pointedly.
“That’s a good question. Let me ask around a little, and I’ll let you know.”
She eyed him judgmentally again, then rummaged through a large chocolate brown leather bag that looked like it was made of lambskin. She came out with a simple white envelope.
“I’d prefer if there were no formal records of this job. Here is an initial retainer. If you find this isn’t something you can do, then consider it hush money. Only use the messaging app I contacted you with to reach me,” she said, standing up and putting two twenties on the table for the food and then walking out of the shop.
Valentine helped himself to her scone and pondered the particulars of what lay before him.
He eyed the envelope. Picking it up, it had a delicious heft to it. There were few things in life Jay Valentine liked more than white envelopes full of cash. No taxes, no questions, and often plenty of dirty deeds behind them.
He picked it up and put it in his inside jacket pocket, and patted it comfortingly. Then he tucked into his breakfast.
Chapter 3 – All Cops Are Bastards
The One Nine was a somewhat large precinct and a well-funded one at that. There was an air of civility and efficiency that one didn’t find in a lot of other police stations around the city, and it made Valentine sneer. A cop was a cop. It didn’t matter how respectful they seemed from the outside. They were all bastards, just like the “ACAB” spray-painted boldly on the side of the wall of the precinct.
It only took twenty minutes of watching the building from across the street, sipping lousy coffee, and pretending to read the newspaper to figure the place out. It was a well-oiled machine with an army of cops coming in and out all the time. There were cameras everywhere, there were very few doors in, and from what he understood, it was like that at all hours of the day. Outright theft was completely absurd.
That left bribery, subterfuge, or possibly something like blackmail. All were risky, and the latter took a lot of setup.
He was familiar with the chain of evidence and how rigorous it was, especially in a case involving the murder of someone wealthy and white. Everything at the crime scene would have been documented, sealed in little bags, put into a bin, and behind lock and key in an evidence locker with multiple guards in the most heavily secure part of the building. Evidence lockers held thousands and sometimes millions of dollars in cash, drugs, weapons, who knows what.
As he folded up his paper and frowned down at his coffee, he eyed two rookie cops who were sitting down to breakfast near him.
Growing up in Queens, he had seen first-hand cops beating people for little or no reason. He saw a lot of things, and none of it gave him much confidence that he would be able to get a phone out of a police station, even with an act of god, if there were such a thing.
He decided he needed a drink and not from the shitty bar that one would always find next to a police station or firehouse.
Walking down Lexington, he pulled out his little black address book. He did know a cop well enough to bribe, but she was in a different precinct, and owed him a big enough favor that he needed to save for when he was really in trouble. He knew a few lawyers, of course, and bail bondsmen, but he doubted they would be much good. Stopping at a crosswalk, he raised an eyebrow when he got to the name Mitzi Collins.
Mitzi had a somewhat low position at one of the prominent local newspapers, but she might know someone who might know someone. She was an eager girl, who was blessed with the need to be helpful. He pulled out his phone and sent off a text.
“I find myself near your office and wonder if you’d like to have lunch,” he wrote, then looked up where her office was while looking for a subway station.
“Sandwiches in the park if you want to catch up, hotdogs in a taxi if you want to fuck, Balthazar if you need a favor,” she replied as he got on the 6 train. He sighed, but only in that way that you sigh when you remember how charming someone is.
Balthazar was one of his favorite places in the city. Old world elegance, but composed for a busy New York lifestyle. The enormous aged mirrors on the walls showed the back of many well-groomed heads as he smiled at the maître d in that way that told him Jay didn’t have a reservation but would tip well.
Mitzi was in a pencil skirt and matching blazer. She was pretty in a very specific way that got Jay’s heart racing, with a cherubic face and cupid bow lips and eyes that were always made up with the sharpest of wings.
She waited in front of his table for him to get up and pull out her chair for her, as expected. She gave him her cheek to kiss and smiled contently.
“Do you want to ask the favor first? It might influence what I order,” she said, looking over the wine list.
“My dear Mitzi, you can order whatever you like. ‘The suits are footing the bill,’ as they say.”
She wrinkled her eyebrows. “I’ve never heard anyone say that.”
He shrugged and placed his napkin on his lap. When the waiter arrived, she got a glass of Champagne, and he got a glass of the house Côtes du Rhône.
“Do you know who works the beat around the 19th Precinct? Who might be able to get some information for me? Honestly, it’s not that much of a favor. It’s more of a Smith favor than a Balthazar favor, but I can’t say no to you, Mitzi.”
She sipped her Champagne and frowned. There was a beat and she looked right in his eyes. “You did, though. You did say no to me. Kindly, I think, but firmly. There was just that one night and then only flirting with your practiced distance,” she said in a serious tone that pulled him out of his chipper mood.
Silence settled around them, and his wine suddenly tasted like battery acid.
“I think I want cassoulet, but it’s too warm for it,” she said, casually, snapping out of her seriousness abruptly. He waited a moment before replying, letting her words clear out a bit.
“Get the duck. It’s what you want from the cassoulet. We can share escargot to start.”
Her smile returned, though not at its full volume.
“It would be James Chow if it is anything like robbery, car theft, or property damage. If it is that murder the other night, then it’s Harold Brubaker,” she said simply. He smiled at her and swallowed.
“I am sorry about saying no. I got the feeling you were looking for more than I was capable of giving at the moment.”
She eyed him, one eyebrow raised. “Well, perhaps I was. Maybe I wanted you to break my heart a little. Or at least do that thing with the belt again,” she said, without a drop of shame as the waiter put down their plates at that very moment.
He swallowed his discomfort along with a garlicky snail. She smiled, enjoying the upper hand.