“MIRANDA IS OKAY, you know, but is—how you say?—flaky lady and not reliable, ‘specially on Saturday night when I need most. But customers they like, and she get along okay with staff,” Qasim Mahboub says of Miranda, raising his palms in resignation as if to say What can you do?
The lunch hour rush has thinned by the time Melissa and I arrive to speak with the proprietor of the Persian Grille where Miranda worked as a server full-time for over two years.
“Me? I think she is party-girl. Most of staff here they young, twenties, and Miranda, well, she is not so young, no?” A lift of a bushy unibrow. “Who knows? Maybe she is making best of time when she can? She looks not bad for age, but you can see it not going to be forever.”
Mahboub makes a sour face as if disapproving of Miranda’s life choices.
“Any one customer Miranda take a shine to?” I say.
“Shine? How do you mean by this shine?”
“Anyone she likes more than the others.”
“Nope, she like ‘em all.”
“A boyfriend you know of?”
“Not me,” he says.
“Not you?”
“No, no, no,” he says, alarmed. “Not like: Not me. But like: I do not know if she have boyfriend. You understand?”
I’m trying. “Do you know anything of her personal life?”
Mahboub settles back in his chair, crosses his meaty arms over his chest. He is a large man of Lebanese ancestry with olive skin. In addition to the bushy uni-brow, there is a drooping black mustache hanging over his lip. His head is a tangled weave of dark hair flecked by gray. His black eyes consider the question. To his credit, he does not eye Melissa rapaciously. In fact, he behaves as if she doesn’t exist at all, which to me somehow seems worse.
“You know,” he says in his heavily accented English, “after working here over two years, I should say I know little. Not where she come from, not if she has husband or has child—though, with lifestyle, I should say no. Not even home address. These things I leave to bookkeeper. So, no, I have no idea who is Miranda when Miranda she is not here.”
Before leaving we speak to some of the wait and kitchen staff, none of whom know Miranda well. One young woman suggests I talk with an employee named Denieca Brown who, like Miranda, mostly worked evenings and, if anyone, seemed closest to her. From Mahboub’s bookkeeper, I get Brown’s home address and mobile phone number.
After leaving the Persian Grille, I decide Melissa, and I, should split.
“There’s enough high-end retail in the neighborhood surrounding Hell’s Kitchen Park to warrant video surveillance, Mel. Bumpers cameras may not be operational, but there could be cameras along 47th and 10th that are. Find as many as you can.” I toss her the keys to the vehicle. “I’ll walk to the next call. It’s only around the corner.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Fifteen minutes later, after phoning ahead to confirm, I arrive at the apartment house of Denieca Brown.
We sit on the stoop of the building on W 49th Street where Denieca lives with three other women, Jamaican immigrants though Denieca, herself, was born and raised in Queens. She is twenty-three years of age and pretty. A recent graduate in Poli-Sci from NYU, she tells me she is presently seeking employment in her chosen field of study.
“With an election coming up,” she says, “I may catch on with a political campaign. I’m female, I’m black, I’m young—maybe the Dems will be interested, yeah? In the meantime, a girl got to pay the rent, doesn’t she? But with a degree in Poli-Sci? Shit, I could be waiting tables forever.”
Denieca throws back her head dramatically. I laugh.
Pulling a package of Pall Malls from a jeans pocket, Denieca offers the pack to me. Being one of those annoying smokers who never buys yet never really quits, I accept. We ignite. Denieca is medium height with a dark chocolate complexion. Unlike Mel, Brown carries her weight in all the right places.
Sensing my appreciation, she grins. “So, what’s it like to be a homicide cop in America’s greatest city? Like you see on TV?”
Returning the smile, I say, “Actually, mostly it’s pushing paper and tracking down dead-end leads by phone. Biggest challenge is trying to stay awake.”
I inhale, exhale rhythmically.
“And when it’s not mind-numbingly dull, mostly it’s dirty, grimy, and small. You see people at their worst, rarely at their best. Victim and perpetrator, alike. You see just how little incentive we need to do unspeakable damage to our fellow man.”
Denieca flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. Seeming disappointed, she says, “Jesus, man, aren’t you a ray of sunshine in a glass.”
“Rarely do you get to shoot anyone.”
“Ever had to?”
“Shoot someone? Once, but I missed.”
Denieca laughs. “You’re a goof.”
“So, say my three ex-wives.” She eyes me speculatively, like a stray dog. Sadly, on women, I have this effect.
“You’re a goof, but I like you.”
“Let’s talk about Miranda,” I say, unwilling to flirt.
Denieca shakes her head. “What’s to talk about? She was party central, like a Roman candle burning flame at both ends. She was overdue to burn-out. I’m sorry this happened to her, but no way am I surprised.”
“We know she was a drinker and did drugs. You ever witness this?”
“Mostly gange, but when the money was good, blow, too.”
“She a supplier or a buyer?”
Denieca chuckles. “Miranda? Seriously? She was always looking for a hand-out, yeah?”
“Men?”
She rolls her eyes. “Lots. And she wasn’t choosy. At the Grille, we called her Randy Mirandy. Randy for short.” Denieca raises her palms in self-defense. “Not judgin’, just sayin’.”
“Any man or men in particular?”
“No, any man at all, pretty much. Couldn’t advise her, though.”
I’m tired of asking the same question with the same response. Miranda: junky-slut. To me, she’s a victim, too.
“Is there anything at all you can tell me that might narrow down the list of who is responsible?”
Denieca stubs her cigarette out on the walk beneath the toe of a pink rubber flip-flop. Carelessly, I flick my butt to the gutter. The temperature has hit ninety degrees. The sun has just cleared the rooftop of the building opposite. I sweat, Denieca sweats. Her smooth dark skin glistens like glaze on the surface of a chocolate truffle.
Ahh, to be twenty years old again, I muse. Suddenly, I regret my age.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I thought Miranda was trying to turn things around, but I guess I was wrong.”
“How do you mean?” I ask, my tone neutral.
“Hard to say. About month back, Miranda stopped drinking, stopped partying, and stopped going home with strange men. I thought maybe she’d got a better offer, gone to rehab, or tested positive for HIV. I think she’d been attending AA. Says she’s planning to get back her kids. At least petition the court for visitation.”
“She tell you this?”
“Yeah. Not sure I believed her.”
“Did she talk about her husband?”
“I knew she had an ex that she never talked about except to say he was an asshole.”
“Children?”
“Only in the context of wanting to see them again. Don’t know their names or ages, only I think it was a boy and a girl.”
“She talk about her past at all?”
“We weren’t exactly besties. We worked together, partied some, then partied some more. After, we went our own way. But if the ex has custody of the kids, that says it all, doesn’t it?”
“You know a place called Bumpers, across the street from Hell’s Kitchen Park?”
A bead of sweat forms on Denieca’s upper lip. “You asking me on a date?” She touches a forefinger to my cheek. This effect, I have on women, also.
“It’s the place where Miranda was last seen alive.”
Denieca retreats. “Sorry. Never heard of it.”
“No idea where she hung out in her off-hours when she wasn’t hanging with you?”
Denieca waggles her head to indicate No.
Standing, I offer her my card. “If you think of anything more, give me a call.”
Standing, she studies the card. Then, looking me in the eye, she returns the forefinger to my cheek. She says, “Sure, Dex, maybe I will.” Busted. “Maybe I will.”
Denieca flashes a smile. Up the stairs, she goes two at a time. Before entering the building, she says, “You find the fucker who did this to her, you’ll let me know, yeah?”
I nod. “Deliver the news in person.”
Satisfied, Denieca turns and disappears.
✽ ✽ ✽
On the street, I message Gabby:
you done?
on way back now
k meet at station
10-4