Twenty
ONE flash of his gold shield and the cackling stopped. When Quinn spoke again, his tone was dipped in steel.
“My partner here has a few questions for you. If you’re smart, you’ll give her your full attention—and respect—because this park is legally closed; from the smell of it, you’re not drinking soda pop; and I can have backup here in less than five minutes . . .” As Quinn finished, he casually opened his sports coat, just enough for them to glimpse the butt of his brand-new Glock nestled in its shoulder holster.
For a few seconds, the young men shared uneasy glances. Then they all stared at me, Quinn included.
“You’re on,” he whispered.
I cleared my throat, lowered my voice, and in my best imitation of “just the facts” Sergeant Franco, asked—
“Any of you see a young woman tonight?”
I went on to describe the dead girl; what she was wearing; height, weight, etc. But they all shook their heads.
“We didn’t see nothin’.”
“Hell, we just got here fifteen minutes ago.”
“We didn’t know the park was closed.”
“Yeah, we didn’t know.”
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re done. Move along. Out of the park . . .”
Quinn’s sweeping Maglite showed them the way.
Alone again, I noticed the edges of his lips were quirking upward.
“That was fun for you, wasn’t it?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re the one who said I should enjoy our little walk in the park.”
“I’ll enjoy it when we recover something to help that poor girl I found floating in the river . . .” I thought of the Groovy Murders again, all those families and parents waiting for word on their lost loved ones. “This is so frustrating.”
“I know, Cosi. I’ve been there—a thousand times. That’s police work. If you want to get anywhere, you have to be willing to make friends with the three P’s.”
“Permits, parades, and parking violations?”
He laughed. “Painstaking patience and persistence.”
“Believe me, Lieutenant, I’m willing.”
“Good. Then let’s keep at it.”
TEN minutes later, Quinn stopped at an overflowing trash bin.
“You’re not—”
“I am . . .” Reaching inside his jacket, he grabbed a pair of gloves. “You don’t know how many times I’ve found incriminating evidence tossed into the trash and forgotten.”
I plucked the gloves from his hand. “Must I remind you, this is my investigation?”
“Clare, I don’t want you going through—”
I moved the gloves out of his reach, and quite a long reach it was, given Quinn’s height.
“Listen, Mike, half the job of managing food service for the public is managing the garbage they leave behind, which makes me the expert here. Besides, you don’t even know what the shoe looks like. If it’s in this bin, I’ll find it.”
I slapped my flashlight into his hands, pulled on the gloves, and was about to dive in when we were interrupted by a loud clattering. We looked up to find a noisy shopping cart coming toward us, pushed by a rail-thin gray-haired man wearing a tattered tuxedo.
Neither Quinn nor I was surprised.
From the guitar-carrying Naked Cowboy of Times Square, to the strange, slick-haired Snare Drummer sticking out famous solos in his red velvet smoking jacket, to the break-dancing Santa, who used to frequent my shop, the variety of New York eccentrics was never-ending.
But then this city has always been a haven for oddballs and misfits, and (honestly) I hoped it always would be. In my view, everyone had a freak flag. Some of us just flew it higher than others.
The gentleman coming toward us tonight was a particular genus of street life: the rolling junk collector. This one had painted his rickety shopping cart in a rainbow of colors. He pushed it with pride in his natty tux, the squeak of its wheels joining the clomp-clomping rhythm of the stacked heels on his red and black snakeskin boots.
Halting the cart beside us, he gloated—
“Too late, kiddies. I got all the good stuff out of that one. You got to be fast if you want the good stuff!”
Playing along, Quinn nodded solemnly. “I guess you’re right. You were too quick for us. Did you happen to find a shoe?”
“A bright pink slip-on sneaker,” I quickly added.
“Nope. But I do have a pair of flip-flops in here somewhere.” He squinted down at Quinn’s legs. “Too small for Big Foot here, but they’ll fit you easy, girly. Want to try them on? I’ll sell ’em to you cheap.”
“We’ll take a rain check. But we are interested in one thing, if you have it—a little information . . .”
Quinn’s glance told me I was “on” again, describing the girl with the heart tattoo.
“Ain’t seen nobody like that. Saw a six-foot lady of the evening with a tiara, yellow wig, and ball gown. A BMW picked her up on Twelfth and drove off.” He scratched his chin. “’Course my eyes ain’t so good these days. Can’t be sure she was a she.”
“Right. Well, thanks for your trouble,” Quinn said, slipping the man a fiver. “You have a good night.”
“Oh! Thank you, sir! Bless you both!” Tipping an imaginary hat, the man with the cart trundled away. “Good luck finding your girly friend!”
Our next encounter came quickly after that, but it wasn’t nearly as cordial . . .
We reached an area across from 28th Street called Habitat Garden. The name had to be ironic since there was nothing garden-like about it—no flowers or plants—though the small concrete plaza did feature a few eccentrically sculpted habitats.
There was a square pavilion, made of metal, with permanent chairs built into the supporting poles like seats on a bizarre merry-go-round. A few yards away, a massive, oddly shaped slab, with seats cut into it at irregular intervals, looked like a breakfast nook from the Bronze Age.
Both “habitats” were uninhabited at this hour, but we approached them with high hopes. These were just the sort of landmarks people might use to arrange a meeting.
As we entered the deserted area, I noticed a male silhouette swiftly detach itself from beneath a cluster of trees. Without a word, the man fell into step behind us.
I leaned into my fiancé. “I think we’re about to be mugged.”
No smile this time. Quinn’s lips were tight as he replied—
“I know.”