The Granite Moth (4 page)

I spread out the papers from Ellis and began reading at random. Almost all of the evidence collected against Magrelli over the years was circumstantial. Associations with criminals, his name on shady bank documents, a photograph showing him leaving a crime scene. My own testimony against him was missing, but I can't say that I was shocked. His case being thrown out implied connections higher than I could safely imagine. Judges, senators—I doubt very many people have access to “Get Out of Jail Free” cards. Not being able to take him down had shaken my faith in the NYPD. My official discharge papers had some mumbo-jumbo language about anxiety on the job, and I'll admit to being easily spooked. “Disappointment” might have been a more accurate description. Was there an exit interview box to check for that?

Magrelli had prided himself on wise investments. While reticent on most subjects, he could bend your ear about the tobacco farm he'd picked up in Celaya, Mexico, for nothing. A few grand. He would describe the soil's smell with the language of a sommelier, hints of lavender and onion. Coca leaves looked plain enough to me, but he could make them sound like emeralds glinting in the afternoon sun. Of course, money does have a certain sheen to it. It wasn't just land; Magrelli was proud of his recruits, too.

His core group numbered no more than six, and he had kept his party-hungry brother as far away from the center as possible. Frank didn't seem to mind. He preferred the spoils
to the action. The other men—always men—were Ivy League educated and Golden Retriever loyal. I thought of them as “papered.” The next circle in his version of hell included his fiancée Eva Costa, but none of her relatives. Eva had been working hard to change his mind, wanting to bring her whole family up in the world with her. He'd always responded with “I'll keep an open mind,” but he didn't take on fools. Her sister Zanna—the person I'd befriended as a way into the scene—was allowed to play lookout from time to time, but I doubted her presence was necessary those nights. Mine certainly wasn't, but Zanna wasn't good at being alone, and I never whined about the weather. We were usually kept far enough away to miss anything that might have aided my investigation, and I had longed for binoculars like I'd never longed for anything before.

My night's burst of energy had been replaced with a headache and sore throat, so I tossed everything aside and laid down, pulling an afghan over my legs. Three years ago, I thought that I had built an airtight case against Salvatore, his brother Frank, and one other dealer named de Luca. Now Frank and de Luca were serving thirty, and Salvatore was helping his new wife pick out nursery furniture. I shuddered at the thought of the devil having babies and reprimanded myself for not doing more, anxiety and disappointment be damned.

When I swore off the violent underbelly of the city, I had meant it. Catching adulterers was easy, and I'd never gotten worse than a paper cut as a private investigator. That is, not until last month when a small-time drug dealer had pulled me back into the fray. I couldn't bring myself to feel grateful for the blows I'd suffered, but the case had forced me to look at what was polluting my city. And it wasn't philanderers. Maybe I was a reluctant vigilante, but better late than never.
I can juggle both cases
, I thought, then laughed at my choice of words. It wasn't a happy sound, and I was glad nobody was around to hear.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he next morning I spent a few futile minutes wishing the previous night's events had been a bad dream, then texted Dolly to check on him. He replied before I finished brushing my teeth in the shared office bathroom, saying that he'd been released and wanted to see me that afternoon. I told him I would meet him at The Pink Parrot, then turned my attention back to the Magrelli file. The contents were scattered over my worn, beige carpet, and I crawled down to meet them at eye level. On my stomach, I flipped through photographs and receipts, tax forms and phone records. I was trying to be thorough, but itched to skip straight to Ellis's tip about the restaurant. The Skyview wasn't any old noodle shop; it was a members-only dining club situated in a high-rise office building near Central Park South. The website brought up an application form, but no additional information. Those in the know know, I guess.

To say that I wanted to see inside was an understatement, and I downloaded the application form. In tiny print at the bottom was the usual legal spiel about a non-discrimination policy, and to be fair, it didn't
seem that race, gender, or sexual orientation made a wink of difference. Cash, on the other hand, was king. In addition to tax forms, the application required three references and a sponsoring current club member. They also requested a 1,000-word summary of accomplishments and a blood sample. Okay, no blood sample, but I would watch out for mouth swabs in the ladies' room.

I Googled “
Vanity Fair
and The Skyview” to rustle up some member photographs. Surely the hotspot had hosted its lion's share of charity events. Raising Awareness of Tennis Elbow or some such. And I was in luck. A summer mingle gave me glimpses of Dolce & Gabbana dresses showing off the city socialites to their best advantages. Tuxedoed and tanned escorts mugged for the photographers. I didn't recognize anyone at first, but it wasn't my crowd. I jotted down all the names I could find, pausing when I got to one Lars Dekker, Jr. Moving my finger along the images, I matched the name with the face, and—
Hello, handsome
. That mug wasn't easy to forget.

Ellis picked up on the first ring, and I told him what I wanted as quickly as possible. That request amounted to using his brother's highfalutin' connections to get me through the front door of one very exclusive address. I could find the back rooms all by myself.

Ellis didn't respond right away, mulling over the ramifications of getting his kin involved in an unendorsed investigation of a drug cartel leader. I knew the brothers weren't close, but Ellis was dutiful. I'd once heard him refer to himself as the rescue dog in a kennel of pedigree pointers. I could almost sense his encyclopedic brain looking at all the possible scenarios of my favor, zooming in and out on the worst ones. When he settled on “calculated risk,” he answered, still holding back.

“I'm not sure if Lars is a member. He's never mentioned it.”

“
You said yourself it was members only, gala or no gala. Would you mind checking?”

Ellis hung up without answering, but I was feeling good about my odds that he'd come through for me. If the answer was “no,” he would have said as much. I clicked on a few more photographs, then stopped on one of Salvatore's one-time fiancée, now wife. She wasn't draped on anyone's arm, but standing by herself under a tasteful sign stating the restaurant name. Underneath, if I squinted, I could make out a few more words: Est. 2013, Eva Costa Magrelli, Proprietor.

The last time I saw Eva Costa, she had handcuffed her sister Zanna to a radiator. There was enough slack for Zanna to keep from burning herself, but she was so high that she screamed, pushed, and pulled against the metal until her hand and forearm were littered with small, cocoon-shaped marks. Her mother sang in the kitchen, trying as she always did to ignore the family business. She didn't even ask where her eldest daughter had acquired handcuffs—standard issue, not novelty with purple feathers.

I was halfheartedly trying to talk Eva into giving me the key. I wish I could say that it was tough to watch my friend injure herself, but I was as high on hope as Zanna was on blow. Zanna wasn't being punished precisely, but being prevented from ruining a large Mexican shipment scheduled to arrive the next morning. In her drug haze, she had been ranting that she knew all about the deal and wanted a cut in exchange for not telling the police. Shoddy blackmail at best and more likely to get her throat slit than get rich, which is why her loyal if not exactly loving sister had shackled her.

Where Eva was the neighborhood goddess, fawned over from morning to night, Zanna was the neighborhood loose cannon,
a fighter not a lover. When the NYPD had suggested I befriend her, only my half-comatose state could have made me agree. After my parents' death, I had been a winning combination of numb and fearless. As Big Mamma had so recently argued, anyone looking out for my best interests would have suggested a less taxing assignment. I would have been aces at crime scene photography, for instance. But there was nobody except my concerned friend Ellis, who didn't have any authority at the time despite his obvious potential. So I rented the apartment next door to the Costas and slowly wiggled my way into Zanna's confidence. It wasn't that hard. Even loose cannons get lonely.

Two years later, I was no longer numb and pretty well scared of the Magrellis and the Costas. If Zanna said enough, I could walk, hence my ambivalent concern about her burns. At the time, I thought I could walk and never look back, but I was nothing if not naive. Orpheus hadn't meant to turn back to the underworld either. He'd even been warned, but turn back he did, losing his beloved in the process. I was still taking inventory on what I'd lost.

“Eva, she's bluffing,” I had suggested. “How could she even know enough?”

I pulled my jet-black hair off the nape of my neck, sweating from standing over the radiator steam. Zanna was sweating, too, dripping onto the 1980s carpet that probably hadn't been cleaned since installation. The Costa apartment was dingy to say the least, and all three children—Eva, Zanna, and the baby Nino—wanted nothing more than to get the hell out. Only Eva had a shot, as far as I could tell, and she kept surprising me with her family allegiances. Why let them keep dragging her down?

“I brought her with me yesterday, to Salvatore's. He was on the phone, and—¿
Qué te pasa,
Zanna?”

I needed two measly pieces of information for my extraction dreams to become a reality: ship name and port name. Did my contact know that much? I wasn't sure, and I was trying to avoid the mistakes that come with desperation. I didn't say anything, repeating “ship name and port name” in my head. For something to do, I walked into the kitchen and poured two glasses of water from the tap. I doubted Zanna would take even a sip, but Mrs. Costa grunted in approval.

“They're both good girls,” she told me in Spanish. I had my doubts. About the girls and Mrs. Costa's sincerity. Her persona was that of a devout, Venezuelan housewife—a model matriarch—and she had a repertoire of signature dishes to prove her status. But when she looked at me, the smile stopped at her eyes. Always suspicious. And sometimes in my nightmares, it's not Salvatore Magrelli or even Zanna who corners me in an alley with a baseball bat, but rather Signora Costa blowing my brains out with a .45, then stopping for groceries on the way home.

Six-feet tall neon flamingos stood on either side of the Pink Parrot entrance, guarding the place along with a bouncer—excuse me, a security professional. Both birds were unlit, and Earl was nowhere to be seen. In fact, even when I peered into the windows, I couldn't see anyone. A small handwritten note said closed until further notice. It startled me to see this New York institution closed. I didn't believe anything could shake Big Mamma, and it was an effort to knock. Whatever was going on inside, I didn't want to disturb. When the door cracked open, it wasn't the owner but Dolly's red-rimmed eyes that greeted me.

“Hey, sugar,” he said. “Come on in out of the rain.”

I glanced up at the crisp, blue November sky and shook my head, following Dolly into the dark and latching the door behind me. Wearing jeans and a University of Florida sweatshirt, he looked like a different person than he had the night before. He navigated the room gracefully, missing the assorted chairs and tables while I banged my elbows and shins. It hurt to look at the stage, still decorated with silver streamers and disco balls, but deflated somehow, as if covered with a month's worth of dust, not a day's. Dolly's dressing room was better—lamps on at least—and when the tea kettle whistled, I relaxed enough to fix us both cups of chamomile. I could have used something stronger, but calming seemed like the right choice for Dolly.