“Temporary. I’ll be gone in an eyeblink.”
“What, you trading it for a mud hut in the veldt?”
“Anything particular bring you here, Gershwin?”
“Did I hear the news right? Are we losing the case?”
I grunted. “Not our jurisdiction. There is no serial killer, just some horrible accident in transport. Or so I keep hearing.”
He scowled. “Where does the case go now?”
“To Homeland Security for starters. Probably get passed between a half-dozen agencies until it gets buried under a blizzard of cold-case paperwork.”
I sprawled the couch’s length, laced my fingers behind my head, and glared at the ceiling. An idea formed and I jumped up, frantically dialing my phone. Morningstar answered.
“I haven’t got to the Carosso corpse yet, Ryder. Hold your horsies and I’ll look at it as soon as—”
“What kind of person would smuggle young men and women – almost children – into the country as sex slaves?”
“Sick, twisted, greedy.”
“Amoral?” I said.
“Totally.”
“Congratulations, Dr Morningstar, you’ve just described a sociopath. My specific field of inquiry.”
A pause as she considered my potential ploy. Then dashed my hopes.
“Hunh-unh, Ryder, nice try, but it’s grabbing at straws. Homeland Security’s got their paws on the case and they’re keeping it.”
“It was just a thought, Doc. Thanks for setting me straight.”
A pause. “Between you and me and the fencepost, Ryder, I wish it could have worked. Rayles sent his team to interview me.”
“And?”
“It was the B team, C maybe. A bunch of trainees getting their feet wet. I don’t even think Rayles is running it, I think he delegated it to his briefcase-toter, Pinkle or whatever. I wish you guys were running this thing.”
I thanked her again. I considered throwing the phone into the wall, but realized that was not only stupid but expensive. So I kicked a magazine across the room, emptied half my glass and lay back on the couch, glaring at the ceiling again. Gershwin leaned against the marble counter separating the kitchen and great room.
“I’ve never seen you in a shitty mood,” he said. “It’s depressing.”
“Then you’ve got two choices, Ziggy: leave for happier climes or stay here and be depressed with me.”
He nodded toward my glass. “Any more of that rum around?”
20
Chaku Morales walked into the main room of the club. Three women in various stages of undress cavorted on a stage above a long glass-topped bar, one performing improbable gymnastics on a gleaming pole. Morales’s massive head rotated as if on gimbals, an outsized robot set on Search. He saw Orzibel near the alley door, signing an invoice for a liquor salesman. When the salesman departed, Morales walked to Orzibel and nodded at the ceiling, meaning upstairs.
“Mama Cho is here. Pissed.”
Orzibel followed the behemoth to his office and stepped inside to see Leala, her eyes wet and terrified. But there was something else in them … anger? Beside Leala was Cho. She wore a pink and kimono-shaped blouse over a floor-length blue sheath, the skirt slit to mid-thigh. The woman jabbed a two-inch red nail at Leala.
“I want a new girl,” she said, her voice like a saw cutting tin.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s worthless, cry, not work. Customers lose mood. I demand a new girl and one thousand dollars.”
“Why the grand?”
“For time and lost money. I got business to run, can’t make money when I deal with stupid problems. Plus I lose three customers.”
“I want to go home,” Leala said.
Orzibel backhanded her face and dragged her screaming across the carpet to Chaku. “Take the bitch to the basement and I’ll deal with her later.”
Amili entered the room. “I can’t work with all the noise,” she said. “What is the problem?”
Cho rolled her eyes. “I have to repeat myself?”
“One of the new girls …” Orzibel said. “Leala. She’s fucking up.”
“No handjob,” Cho explained, pumping the air with her fist. “Just cry.”
Orzibel looked at Amili. “Mama wants a new one, which is cool. She wants a grand for her trouble, which isn’t.”
“Who cares what you think is cool?” Cho spat. “I make barely enough to stay open, two hundred a day a girl. I need them work all the time …” she rolled her fists in her eye sockets, “not cry.”
“Two hundred a day a girl?” Amili asked.
“Times are tough. Everyone doing the handjob to the internet.”