Reed Coleman - Hurt machine

I pulled over by a fire hydrant and kept the SUV running. I texted Pam my exact location. All things being equal, it would’ve been better if I could have been the one in the subway. Pam was a New Englander and though she had worked cases in New York City before and had spent a lot of time here since we began seeing each other, she didn’t know the lay of the land like a native. But all things weren’t equal. Natasha would have seemed way too comfortable with me close by. And the fact was, I’d been working the case for a while and many of the players, especially Escobar, knew me, knew my face. I’d also gotten a lot of press during the search for Sashi Bluntstone. I couldn’t risk blowing it all. Anyway, I’d given Pam a full description of Escobar. She was a total pro and could handle herself. I’d witnessed that myself.

I checked my watch: 2:03. As I did, Pam texted: On second car. Wrong choice. No Escobar. No men. I texted back that he was probably on the third or fourth car and not to worry. I was no fan of technology, but you had to love the fact that between cell phones, laptops, iPads, Kindles, digital video cameras, et cetera, it was impossible to tell if someone was just listening to music or doing surveillance. Even if Pam was the only person texting in that subway car, no one would give her a second thought.

Next text: Pulling into 86th St.

Next text: Man on. Not Escobar. Young. Black. Black hoodie, jeans, Nikes. Walking 2 back of train.

Next text: Pulling out. On way 2 79th. No men on car.

Next text: Slowing for 79th.

Next text: Stopped. Doors open. Out. No men! Young woman at can. Got it. Coming up.

A woman! Maybe Escobar was smarter than I’d given him credit for. It was wise of him to insulate himself, to give himself some deniability. And here I was thinking that using the 79th Street station had been a mistake. It had very limited street access and no access between north and southbound platforms. There were only two choices for escape: up the stairs to the street or to risk life and limb by crossing the tracks to the northbound platform.

In the brief instant that I did a double-take at Pam’s last text, I missed the woman coming out of the subway. When I gazed back up and into my rearview mirror, all I caught was a glimpse of long black hair, a bare leg, the bulging paper bag in tapered fingers, and a cab door slamming shut. What an idiot I’d been. I was the complacent one. I’d been so sure it would be Escobar making the pickup himself, so sure he would grab a cab on the avenue, that I had left myself in exactly the wrong position. Pam opened the Suburban’s passenger door and jumped in.

“I almost missed her completely,” I screamed. “She got in a cab.”

Pam didn’t need to be told twice; I was already moving before she closed the door and belted in.

“What about Natasha?” Pam asked.

“Call her and tell her that we’re following the money. Don’t mention anything else. Tell her to take a cab home and that we’ll be in touch.”

But as Pam made the call, I knew our cause was lost. The Suburban was facing south down Broadway and the cab had headed west along 79th. At that time of the morning, much of the traffic in the city was yellow cabs and spotting one from the other was like sorting through a penny jar. I raced down Broadway and cut west as soon as I could, but it was no good, no good at all. Even if I could have isolated each of the thirty cabs I’d seen on the way and the ones I was looking at now, I would have no way to pick which one I wanted to follow unless I could see the backseat passenger. Talk about fucked.

“We’ll just wait for the next payoff demand,” Pam said, trying to console me. “Now that we know he has a woman helping him, we can be alert for that. We can bring in help next time.”

“There’s no time for a next time.”

“Of course there is. Blackmailers don’t stop. Sooner or later, they want another taste. Natasha will understand. After Sarah’s wedding we’ll-”

“Pam, it’s not Natasha I’m worried about. It’s me that doesn’t have time for a next time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I barely heard the question because my mind was processing something. I closed my eyes and thought back to the glimpse I’d seen of the woman getting into the cab. There was something familiar about her, the color of her hair, the shape of her calf. It’s amazing how little we need to see of someone to recognize them. I knew her, but from where? Then, all at once, it came to me, and it made a sickening kind of sense. I pulled to the curb and slammed my hand hard against the steering wheel.

“What are you doing-and what was that crack about having no time?”

“I know her,” I said.

Pam was confused. “Know who?”

“It’s not Escobar. It never was.”

“Who’s not Escobar?”

“The girl in the cab.”

“Who is she?”

“Wrong question. It’s not who she is. It’s who she used to be. Call Natasha and tell her we’re coming over.”

When I described her, Natasha said she knew who I was talking about. She said she worked as a bartender at Kid Charlemagne’s, but didn’t know what happened to her.

“She’s a very beautiful girl.”

I agreed.

“Do you remember her name?”

“It was an interesting name, foreign sounding,” she said.

“Was she at Piccadilly the night… you know?”

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment. “I think so, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember a lot of it. Why?”

I didn’t have to answer the question for her. I saw the answer in her eyes.

…

It had been easy enough to get her address from Nathan Martyr and to confirm it with Chef Liu. It was no shock that the address matched Tillman’s. Of course they had lived together. Now it was only a matter of waiting outside her apartment, the top floor of an unremarkable house in the Long Island City section of Queens.

“If she was extorting more than two women, she could do better than this,” Pam said, staring up at the house for a second before returning her gaze to the passenger’s sideview mirror.

“Tuition.”

“What?”

“Tuition costs a fortune at SVA,” I said. “And she’s put her film education to good use.”

“Funny fella. I don’t think Maya Watson would have seen it that way.”

“None of them would.”

Pam tensed. “Here she comes. My side of the street, half a block down. You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not me you should be worried about,” she said. “Are you sure he’s going to go for it?”

“If he is who I think he is, yes. If not, we’re all fucked.”

On that cheery note, I got out of the SUV. Hiding behind the side of the Suburban, I dialed the number DiNardo had given me from Maya’s cell phone, the same number Natasha had given me: her blackmailer’s number. I heard the muffled ringing of a phone just as she passed me. I stepped out from around the Suburban, phone in hand.

“Hello, Esme,” I said.

She wheeled around. She knew immediately who I was, but pretended not to. “Do I know you?”

I waved my cell at her, smiling. “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

She ignored that. “Who are you?”

I clicked my phone off and the ringing in her bag was silenced. “Aren’t you curious how I got your number?”

“Not really, no. Who are you again?” Now she was just stalling for time, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Maybe you don’t recognize me without my old badge or a drink spilled all over me.”

“Oh, I remember now, yes. From the High Line.” She smiled at me, running her tongue over her lips as she had the second time I spoke to her. “How did you find me?”