The Second Girl(52)

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“What’s the guy’s name you get your crack from?”

“I said I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Then I guess I’ll hang out and wait for your mom.”

“You’re a real *.”

“I know I am. What’s his name?”

“I just know him as Playboy.”

“Playboy? You telling me you don’t know his first name?”

She hesitates, and then says, “Calvin, but everyone calls him Playboy. Please don’t have him arrested. I need him.”

“I’m not gonna have anyone arrested. I told you. I just want to find Miriam. If I ever talk to Playboy, he’ll never know I talked to you, so your relationship will be just fine. Don’t worry. What does he look like?”

“He’s a black guy, keeps his hair short and tight.”

“How old? Is he a big guy? Describe him.”

“He’s in his early twenties. He’s a couple of inches taller than me.”

“So he’s about five eight. What does he drive?”

“A really nice Lexus.”

“Color?”

“It’s black. Shiny black.”

“Two-or four-door?”

“Two doors.”

“Did you ever see his car tags, what state they’re from?”

“No. Why would I look at his car tags? He’s from DC, though.”

“Do you have a code name you use with him for crack?”

“Code name?”

“When you called him. I know you didn’t come out and say you wanted some crack.”

“We didn’t call; we texted. And we call them jellybeans.”

“That’s a good one. What about someone named Robbie? You know him?”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Because it’s my job. So who is he?”

“A friend of Edgar. He’s just a pothead, that’s all.”

“I’m going to need to see your cell phone, Justine.”

“My mom has it. What are you going to tell her? You promised—”

“Calm down. I’ll tell your mom that you have contacts of other friends on there and I just need to copy some numbers, all right? That’s all she’ll hear. You can listen to the whole conversation if you want. I won’t burn you with your mom, and like I already told you, I won’t burn your Playboy. But you’re gonna have to keep your mouth shut or you’ll lose everything. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“I mean it. You wanna keep your little adventure, then you’d better make sure someone like Playboy never learns about our conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not stupid.”

There is irony there.





Forty-six



Life can be hard, especially for a bored suburban teenager on drugs.

After this job, I’m done with teenagers.

Hard to believe I used to be one. I might even feel a little bad for my parents.

No, not really.

When you think about it, I’m not much different from some of these kids. The only thing that separates us is I don’t have to worry about my f*cked-up parents anymore.

So why didn’t they take Justine like they took Amanda, and more than likely like they took Miriam? Maybe Playboy can answer that question.

But then there’s Edgar. He said he brought Miriam to the Salvadorans’ house, but maybe they didn’t have to use the tactics they used for Amanda. Maybe Miriam was willing. Crack is some powerful shit. It rots you from the inside out.

Cocaine is a monster, but crack is the devil. You can keep the monster in a closet, but not the f*cking devil. It’ll possess your life and get you to a point where there’s nothing left but the devil himself. I’ve seen it enough times on the job. I was smart enough not to take that first hit. I know how weak I am. It would’ve changed my life from something manageable to something out of my control. I feel like that’s happening now sometimes, but I believe in the power of good grapefruit, Valium, Klonopin, and a few hours of sleep.

If Miriam was willing, then she’s either dead or working in one of those row house brothels you’ll find on almost every other block in certain sections of DC. And shit, this isn’t a competition. I’m hoping Caine gets to Justine and gets the information I have. Unfortunately, I can’t give it to him because I can’t chance Justine sending up a flare to warn Playboy. I need Playboy on the street, where he’s easier to get to. Also Justine might disappear for good if that happens. Then again, she still might.

Even though I don’t have anything I want to share yet, I feel obligated to check in with the Gregorys. I get out of my suit first and slip on some jeans and a casual shirt. After that, I plop on the sofa and light a cigarette.

Ian Gregory answers the home phone, having just walked in the door after his commute from the Pentagon.

I fill him in on what very little I can tell him and add, “I do have a couple of leads, and I’ll be following through on those first thing in the morning.”

“Detective Caine called me the other day. Have you been in touch with him?”

“Yes, I have.”