“Why?”
“So we can…”
“Is she going to need a lawyer?” Mrs. Harris asked.
“I don’t think so. Why would she need a lawyer?”
“You said victim.”
“Yes, ma’am, this is a homicide we’re investigating.”
Another long silence. Then:
“Is she a suspect?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why…?”
“We’re tracking the victim’s whereabouts, we think your daughter may have been with him on the day before the murder.”
“Then sheisa suspect.”
“No, ma’am, I would not say she’s a suspect.”
“I won’t give you her address,” Mrs. Harris said, and hung up.
He called her back at once.
“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “don’t hang up on me again, okay? This is a homicide we’re investigating, and we need to know your daughter’s address. If I can’t get it from you on the phone, then I’ll go to the Grand Jury here for a subpoena compelling you to testify. Our DA will make a call to the prosecutor in Broward or Dade, or wherever you are, and he’ll go to a local court for an order supporting the subpoena. Next thing you know, there’ll be a sheriff on your doorstep, and you’ll be flying up here to face the Grand Jury, who’ll either get the address from you or charge you with contempt. Air travel is no picnic these days, ma’am, so why not save all of us a lot of trouble and give me the address right here and now?”
“You are a bully, young man,” Mrs. Harris said.
But she gave him the address.
12
The Needle got back to me on Wednesday morning, the day after Mercer Grant came to report his missing wife. By that time my associate Barry Lock had trailed Grant to several different apartments in the city and could not say with certainty that Grant lived in any of them. He had finally lost him when he went into the Barnes & Noble on Thirty-fifth Street, where Lock observed him reading several magazines he did not offer to buy, while sipping a cappuccino he had apparently purchased.
But that’s where Lock lost him because, you should pardon this, Commish—and this is just between you and I, or maybe even you and me—he had to relieve himself. And while he was in the back of the store where the men’s room was, Grant took it in his head to depart, whether by coincidence or design. In short, I still didn’t know where he lived. So it was with considerably great expectations that I took the call from The Needle that morning. Hopefully, The Needle…
Or perhaps IhopedThe Needle…
Or maybe I was evenhopefulthat The Needle…
Hopefully,The Needle would have some information on Grant or his missing wife Marie or his cousin Ambrose Fields. To which extent, I held my breath and prayed to the good Lord above.
“What have you got for me?” I asked.
“Well, the picture ain’ bright, but neither be it dim. I can’t find neither hide nor hair of him.”
“Then how do you figure the picture’s bright, Morty?”
The Needle did not like being called Morty when his true and honorable name was Mortimer. He once told me that Mortimer is a name from the old Anglo-French, and that it means “one who lives near the sea,” which might have been okay if he was still living in Jamaica, which was surrounded by water, but not if you lived in this city, which was surrounded by thieves of all kinds. Besides, I didn’t like Jamaicans putting on airs, so every now and then I called him Morty to get a rise out of him. It did not get a rise out of him that morning. He went on with his report as if I hadn’t even addressed him.
“I tink I know what dee RUF mean. But it ain no di’mons, it’s a whole ’nother scene.”
“If it’s not diamonds, what…?”
“These conflic’ di’mons, they also called ‘blood.’ An’ the folks dat trade ’em is nothin but crud.”
“What makes you think the RUF isn’t involved here?”
“Blood di’mons is rare on dee street dese days. What we lookin’ at here is a new kinda craze.”
“Like what, Morty?”
“What I got from a lady whose name is Grace, is dee RUF is aunderwearsplace.”
“Underwear?”
“What you put on first…”
“Iknowwhat underwear…”
“…when you gettin dressed. So yo outer clothes dey don’ get all messed.”
“What do you mean by an underwear place? A lingerie shop?”
“What I mean is afac’tryby dee River Dowd. Where dey makes underwears for dee upper-class crowd.”
“What kind of underwear?”
“Lacy bras, garter belts, frilly panties an’ such. If you want to hear more, it won’t coss you too much.”
“Howmuch, Morty?”
“Fo’ dee name, fo’ dee address, pay me juss a fin…”
“No way!”
“Make it four an’ a half, and I’ll cave right in.”
“That’s still too high.”
“Den how about four, do dat sound too dear? Shall I take a walk, or you want to hear?”
“Three hundred is all I can go, Morty.”
“Mother mercy of God, why dee girl socheap? Kinda money like dat ain’ wurt even a peep!”
“Morty, I’m not in the mood for a stickup in a dark alley!”
“Okay den, fine, make it t’ree twenty-five. Do we have a deal? Are we still alive?”
“Three twenty-five. Let me hear it. And it better be good.”
“On dee River Dowd, Queen Elizabeth side,” Mortimer said, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Tink I’ll come along wid you, juss for dee ride.”
“What’s the name and address?”
“I tell you doze when I gets dee pay. Otherwise I see you some udder day.”
“Trust me, Morty.”
“Run hide dee silver, cause dee lady wants trust…”
“Morty…”
“Never see her again once she makes dee bust.”
“You can trust me, you know that. What’s the name and address?”
Mortimer sighed deeply.
“Juss between you an’ I, or perhaps you an’ me, it’s the Reve du Jour Underwears Factory.”
“Reve du Jour Underwear,” I said. “Never heard of it. Where is it?”
“Accordin to dee lady whose name is Grace, it’s twenty-one, forty-four Riverview Place.”
“Thank you, Mortimer.”
“You owe me t’ree an’ a quarter,” he said.
The trouble with Livvie’s city was that it was imaginary. The people, the places in her pages were all fictitious. For all Emilio knew, even the police routine was phony and not based on established investigatory technique. He realized that this was what she’d had to do in order to throw the bad guys off her track, but man it
