ago.
The language on the streets was Spanish, with a Latino population dominated primarily by Dominicans. The sidewalks were cracked and pitted on Wadsworth, and potholes dotted its side streets. I observed more than one homeless person lurching along, shouting at phantoms, and strange, illegible graffiti was spray-painted everywhere: billboards, buildings, passing delivery trucks.
Now I knew very well that graffiti had been around for a few millennia. The ancient Greeks had it. So did the Romans. But the stuff we were passing now wasn’t attached to 2,000-year-old historical relics. This wasn’t even the artsy kind of graffiti I’d seen during the eighties all over Soho and the Lower East Side: the kind of street art that had launched major careers, like the powerful primitive images of Jean-Michel Basquiat or the lighthearted pop figures of Keith Haring.
These slashing, sloppy, angular marks were gang tags, something I knew in passing but Mike knew in practice. “Violent drug dealers use the symbols to claim territory and send messages,” he informed me.
“Messages?”
“To warn away rival gangs.”
“And a Hallmark card would have been so much more thoughtful.”
Mike shot me an amused glance, but he didn’t laugh. As we walked along the run-down avenue, I sensed a tension in him. There was a slight wariness, too, in his gaze, as he continually scanned our surroundings. But what most radiated from Mike was a tremendous coiled energy. I couldn’t help flashing on a sketch I’d seen in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook: a medieval catapult, pulled all the way back, ready to unleash hell at a moment’s notice.
But, as it turned out, there was no reason to unleash it. No one bothered or threatened us in the least. And within minutes, we’d easily entered the shabby interior of Brigitte’s former address, which was not marred in any way by graffiti. The six-story dirty brick apartment building was merely filled with bad smells and a clashing color scheme.
The second Mike and I stepped through the front door, the scent of cigars was distinctly recognizable. The bouquet of cheap tobacco became even stronger as we headed down one flight of metal stairs to the basement. And by the time we walked the narrow, lime-green hallway with mustard-yellow trim, I’d added stale beer, scorched garlic, and the reek of industrial-strength cleaning fluid to my stomach-turning aromatic profile of the place.
We passed four apartment doors at the basement level.
Mike glanced at each one. He finally paused at the very last door on the hall. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, we stood together, reading the crudely scrawled name.
FELIX PINTO, SUPERVISOR
Spanish television was blaring on the other side of the door. From another apartment, I could hear a man and woman arguing loudly, speaking a language I didn’t recognize.
Mike’s square jaw worked a moment before he glanced at me. I was wearing my low black boots, a pair of pressed gray slacks, a loose white sweater, and a long gray overcoat. Mike told me to look like a professional detective, and I made sure to follow his advice.
“I’ll do the talking,” he said softly. “Okay?”
I nodded.
He lifted his knuckles and knocked. Three firm taps.
Mike frowned, turned his fist to the side and pounded. His deep voice boomed loud enough to make me flinch. “Lunchtime’s over, amigo! Open the door!”
“No. Not two o’clock.
I heard muttering, and then a bolt was thrown. The door opened a few inches, until it was stopped by a chain. A young man in his twenties with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache peeked through the crack.
“I want to see the inside of an apartment belonging to one of your former tenants,” Mike said.
“You
My eyes widened at Mike’s brazen lie. There’d been no old lady. We hadn’t talked to a single soul on our way in. No one had
Felix Pinto frowned. “
“Don’t blame the old woman. I just showed her this”—Mike held up his gold shield—“and she let loose. She told me all about you, Felix.”
Now the super looked nervous. “What do you want, man?”
Mike folded his arms. “I want to see Brigitte Rouille’s apartment.”
Felix leaned his forearm on the doorjamb—a naked woman in a tropical jungle was tattooed down the length of it. “Some other cops came by yesterday,” he said.
“How long did they stay in the woman’s apartment?”
“They didn’t show me no search warrant—”
“That’s not what I asked you, Felix. I asked you
The man shrugged. “Not long. A few minutes. That’s all. They didn’t do much searching. They just wanted to make sure she was gone, I think.”
“And
“Long gone, man,” Felix replied. “Like five weeks ago. Skipped out on the rent, too, but that ain’t
“Any idea where Ms. Rouille went?”
“Probably moved in with her boyfriend. Why pay two rents when you can pay none?” He snickered.
“Who’s the boyfriend?”
“Don’t know, man. I don’t ask junkies their names. They all act kind of twitchy, you know?”
“Do you know where this junkie lives?”
Felix shook his head. “Sorry, no forwarding address. Guess she didn’t want the management company coming after her. Deadbeat bitch.”
“I’ll need the key.” Mike held out his hand. “Unless you’d rather come with us? Then we can talk over some of those things the old lady told me.”
“No, man. I don’t need to come with you.”
The super searched through a ring of keys attached to a chain on his belt. He finally detached one of them and handed it to Quinn.
“Four F,” Felix said. “And don’t bother waiting for the elevator, ’cause it don’t work. Just slide the key under my door when you’re done.”
Then the super ducked out of sight, and the door slammed in our faces.
“I don’t recall you speaking to an old woman,” I teased as we hit the stairs.
“Every apartment building in New York City has an old lady who talks too much,” Mike informed me, casually tossing the key and catching it. “Sometimes it’s useful to talk to the lady herself, and sometimes it’s just an easy way to get around that ‘
“This is a side of you I haven’t seen before.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “A cop on the street, you mean?”
