THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I exit my apartment building wearing a Mets ball-cap, over-size aviator shades, loose-fit jeans, Nike trainers and—despite the heat—a nylon wind-cheater.
At Cafe Grumpy across the street on 7th Ave, I buy an extra large coffee, add a plain biscuit to settle my churning gut, take a seat on a bench outside. A tan-color Greyhound dog is tethered to the metal leg of the bench, lapping at a bowl of water put there by the cafe owner. Gabby and I often sit here when she visits. Gabby never passes up a chance to mock my commitment to Cafe Grumpy’s fair-trade coffee policy.
A cynic, she says, “It’s a marketing scam, partner, just like Whole Foods, designed to prey on your gullibility and guilt.”
If only she could see me now.
Sensing my anguish, the Greyhound nuzzles his snout up against my thigh. In response, I scratch him beneath the chin, offer a piece of biscuit for which he seems grateful.
Gabby is a cynic, which makes it hard for me to accept what seems to be true. Cynical, experienced, capable. Gabby’s street-smarts and physicality presume she wouldn’t be easily overcome. Possibly I’m wrong, and there’s a more reasonable explanation. The word Rohypnol spins in my mind like a jingle I can’t shake.
Going on six. Abandoned by the Greyhound, I work a second cup of large and dial Upton’s mobile on the burner supplied by The Chatterbox. He answers on the first ring.
“Where are you, Fortune? I’ve been calling. I’m sending a car.”
“Have you heard from Gabby? Mel?”
A moment of hesitation. “Not a word.” His voice is uneven and hoarse.
“What’s going on?”
“We discovered both their vehicles parked on 11th on the street in front of Gotham Market. Security footage shows Gabby arrived, received a telephone call, and departed the Market in a hurry after taking the call.”
“She was scheduled to meet with Mel.”
“If she was, Melissa never showed.”
“He has them,” I say with certainty.
“The Chatterbox?”
“Yes.”
“Who the hell is this freak?”
“I don’t know.” But I have my suspicions.
“When did you last speak with Gabby?”
“Face-to-face? Yesterday. I received messages this morning from both Gabby and Mel telling me they were following up on leads and would meet for coffee to compare notes. Both planned to be back to the Precinct by noon.”
“What else?”
“More than that? Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not doing them favors by withholding information. If they’re in harm’s way, you need to tell me everything. This isn’t about your career. Lives are at stake.”
Don’t I know it.
“I know as much as you.”
“Are you holding back? Remember last time you played hero? You want Fernandez to end up like Marcus Livingstone?”
Silence, like a Sphinx.
“You’re on your own, here, Fortune. The department will not back you up. If we see you, we’ll arrest you.”
Taking a moment to calibrate, I decide all is lost.
“Go fuck yourself, Tommy.”