Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

Patterson took the chair opposite him. “What the hell kind of a woman is that?” she said angrily. “Won’t live past my fiftieth birthday. What kind of a thing is that to say to someone? I’m forty-nine now, for Christ’s sake. My birthday’s in a few months. She saying I’ll be dead by then?” She shook her head. “No wonder this dump is empty.”

“Can’t handle it, Linda?”

“I wanted to know something nice,” Linda said. “I wanted to hear something good, just like we all do. I didn’t need to hear that crap. That woman’s got nerve.”

“I believe she could say the same about you. You insulted her and her business.”

Patterson ignored the comment and rummaged inside her handbag-blunt red fingernails clicking, hands grasping and pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. She shook one out, lit it with the strike of a match and inhaled, holding the smoke before blowing it above their heads. “Look,” she said. “I meant it when I said I was busy. I’m giving you fifteen minutes. What do you want from me?”

He looked at her cigarette. “Smoking isn’t allowed in here.”

“I’m a cop.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll see. I’m seeking information.”

“Surprise, surprise. What about?”

“A couple of things. But let’s start with Maria Martinez and her daughter.”

Patterson drew on the cigarette and sat looking at him, her eyes and face betraying nothing. “Maria Martinez?” she said. “Since when are you interested in the welfare mothers of the world, Marty? Martinez didn’t live in a penthouse on Fifth. She was no murdered socialite. Why would you of all people be interested in her and her daughter?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Linda.”

“That may be,” Linda said. “But it’s up to me whether I answer them, isn’t it?” She took another pull off her cigarette and paused, her face hardening, jaw tightening, wheels turning. “Look,” she said. “I’m not giving you shit until you’ve handed over that check you promised me.”

Marty removed the check from his shirt pocket and pushed it face-down across the table.

Patterson picked it up, glanced fleetingly at the amount and tucked it in her handbag. “That’s less than before,” she said. “You’re getting cheap. But seeing as though I’ve only got a couple months to live, I’ll take it. What do you want to know?”

“For starters,” Marty said, “I’d like to know about the people who saw them being dumped in that Dumpster on 141st Street.”

Patterson started nibbling her lower lip, a nervous habit she’d picked up in rehab. “Aren’t you the clever one, Marty. How’d you find out about that?”

“I get around.”

“Yeah,” Linda said. “Like the clap.”

The kitchen door swung open and Roberta appeared with a steaming cup of tea on a metal tray. She put the cup and the saucer down in front of Linda, plucked the cigarette from her hand and said with her eyes lifted to the ceiling, “This will help even you out. It’s my own special blend. It’s my suggestion that you drink it while thinking positive thoughts, if that’s possible. There’s no charge. Don’t smoke in here again.” Without another word, she went back to the kitchen. Linda looked at the cup of tea-which had a faint ammonia scent to it-moved to pick it up, but instead pushed it away. “She took my fucking cigarette.”

“That’s because it’s against the law to smoke here.”

“Whatever. About Martinez. Only one person came forward. The other disappeared.”

“I assume we’re dealing with a prostitute here?”

“You assume correctly.”

“And her john took off.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Who’s the hooker?”

“LaWanda Jackson,” Patterson said. “Twenty-seven. Been on the streets since she was fifteen and is angry as hell because of it. Until last night, she lived behind that Dumpster. Had a mattress stained with blood and crawling with God-knows-what. Now I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”

“What did she see?”

“Plenty.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Linda shrugged. “I’ll give you your money’s worth. Jackson said she was giving some sleazoid suit the blowjob of a lifetime when Martinez and her daughter ran into the alley, followed by some man with a gun. Before Jackson could react, the man had Martinez against a wall and was pumping two bullets into her brain. He pushed her to the ground and snapped the little girl’s neck. Jackson said she’d never seen anything like it, which I doubt. In sixty seconds, the man murdered two people and tossed their bodies in a Dumpster. He never broke stride. The friggin’ end.”

“What did he look like?”

“Jackson didn’t get an ID,” Linda said. “Too dark.”

“She saw nothing?” Marty said. “Oh, come on, Linda. She must have seen something. Even the color of the man’s hair.”

“She didn’t see anything, Marty. Zero. I believe her.”

And you’re a goddamn liar. “How can I get in touch with her?”

Patterson laughed. “Are you serious, Spellman? Did you hear anything I just said? Jackson lives on the street, not in the sort of glitzy Park Avenue high-rise you’re used to. Do you get the distinction? She’s a homeless whore. I’d be lucky to find her again.”

Suddenly impatient, she glanced at her watch. “Look,” she said. “I’ve given you your fifteen minutes. I’ve told you what I know about the Martinezes. You got something else you want to ask me? Because if you don’t, I’m out of here.”

“Then let’s talk about Gerald Hayes.”

Patterson leaned back in her chair as Roberta came through the door with a clutch of sage. She lit it on fire and walked past the table in great swirls of smoke. “Gets rid of the negative energy,” Roberta said. “I should be more thorough, but I don’t want to interrupt, so I’ll make this quick.”

She said something beneath her breath and waved the sage near Linda. Then, with a final shake that released a plume of smoke, she left.

“What the fuck is this place?” Linda said. “Now I smell like Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Can we talk about Hayes, please?”

Linda shook her head. “No, Marty, that’s something I’ll never give you. Did you really think I didn’t know where this was going? Did you really think I’d give you anything on Hayes after the way you screwed me over on Wilcox?”

She smiled at him. “I had you pegged for an idiot, but this is ridiculous. You burned me once. I gave you everything I had on Wilcox and you went public with her murderer. You broke your promise. You said you’d give me the son of a bitch and you didn’t. I’m going all the way with this case. Hayes’ death was a high-profile blessing from God. I’m getting Detective First Grade out of it.”

“I doubt that,” Marty said. “But I am curious. If you knew I was fishing all along for Hayes, why’d you give me anything on Martinez? Their deaths are obviously related. You’ve helped more than you know. So why talk?”

Patterson patted her handbag. “Because I wanted the money,” she said lightly. “Pure and simple. And, besides, what I gave you wasn’t worth shit compared to what I know about Hayes. Certainly nothing you couldn’t have found out without me. So, it was an easy two grand. Lucky me.”

She rose from her seat, all cool lines and silky curves. She reached for her handbag and looked down at him. “Here’s something else, Spellman, a little advice. If you interfere in any way with this case, if you cross me, I’ll bust your ass for obstruction. This case is NYPD property. Do you understand me?” Her voice was absolutely calm. “You’re not a cop. You have no authority. Screw with my case, and I’ll get a court order that’ll nail you to the wall.”