Alafair Burke - Angel's Tip

Bell handed Ellie a two-page document, neatly stapled together in the upper left-hand corner. “This is a list of bills last night for parties with bottle service-amounts with form of payment. A couple of them paid cash, but there’s a bunch of credit cards there as well.”

Ellie gave the single-spaced document a quick scan and had to suppress a cough. The two parties who paid with cash had racked up bills of nearly a thousand dollars each. Most of the credit card charges went into the four digits.

“Are these charges just for drinks?” she asked.

Bell folded his arms across his chest, his confidence returning for a subject matter that was familiar territory. “Depends on what you mean by ‘just drinks.’ We don’t serve food, that’s for sure. But people pay big for bottle service.”

“That just means you pay for a bottle of liquor. Even if you use a triple markup, how much can that be?”

“We don’t look at it as a markup.” His grin told a different story. “It’s not just a bottle. It’s bottle service. You get the VIP room. You get a private server assigned to your room to mix and pour the drinks. It’s the personal touch that people are paying for.”

“That,” Rogan said, returning from his phone call, “and not having to wait in a five-man-deep crowd around the bar, just to get a drink.”

Ellie suddenly got the picture. In a world where a $15 martini bought you crummy service, the wealthy were willing to pay for something different.

“So how much is, I don’t know, a bottle of Grey Goose, for example?”

“We’re at $350.”

Now she did allow herself a cough.

“Bungalow 8’s at $400,” Bell continued. “I hear a few places are about to go even higher.”

“Some of these bills are a few thousand dollars,” Ellie said, thinking of a month’s worth of take-home pay. “A group small enough to fit in one room goes through ten bottles of liquor?”

Bell shook his head. “No. They order ten bottles of liquor. One guy drinks Goose. His girl likes Patrón. His bro prefers Jack.”

“And if they don’t finish it all-”

“It’s just money.” Bell handed Ellie a second, thicker printout, also neatly stapled. “I also got you our list of people here.”

Ellie flipped through the document. Six pages. Two columns on each. Names, social security numbers, addresses, phone numbers. Bell’s boss must have instructed him to give full cooperation. Probably about sixty employees, all told.

“Now, like I said, on that”-Bell pressed his palms together in a prayer position near his chin-“we do everything we’re supposed to. But we’ve got a lot of people, you know? And if someone squeaked through-”

“I told you we’re not out to sweat you,” Rogan said. “We didn’t even mention the fact that this girl we’re talking about was underage.”

“Oh, Jesus. We check ID. I tell the guys every night. And we really check them. Like, no way some kid’s getting in here with a Hawaii driver’s license that says his name’s McLovin, you know?”

Ellie smiled. “Her friends say she had a fake ID, with a real name and everything. Thanks for this,” she said, holding up the pages Bell had given her. She retrieved a business card from the badge case she kept clipped to her waist and offered it to Bell between her index and middle fingers. “Give us a call if you remember anything from last night that might be pertinent.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

They were almost at the exit when Bell called after them.

“Hey, um, I don’t suppose there’s some way you could leave our name out of the reports or anything, huh? You know, my boss wanted me to ask.”

“Sorry,” Rogan said, as he opened the heavy brown door. They both squinted as they emerged back out into the light. “That phone call earlier was from Florkoski at CSU. The latent she pulled from the button on Chelsea Hart’s shirt didn’t belong to the victim.”

THEY HAD A LATENT PRINT. Now all they needed was a suspect.

That left them back at their adjacent desks, divvying up their to-do list. In her one year as a detective, Ellie had gotten used to other cops assuming she would be the one to do this kind of paper-driven legwork, perhaps because she was junior, but most likely because some of the older detectives-at least in the general investigation units-were not yet comfortable with the technological end of modern police work.

She and Rogan, however, were sharing the load. He had the list of the club’s credit card charges, while she ran the list of its employees through the department’s database of crime reports and through NCIC for criminal records.

Rogan scribbled something on the notes in front of him, and then thanked the person at the other end of the line before hanging up. “I still can’t get over these bar bills. Here’s one for three thousand dollars, plus the guy tacked on a five-hundred-dollar tip.”

Ellie shook her head disapprovingly. “That’s barely fifteen percent. Cheap bastard. I’m never complaining again about paying ten bucks for a drink. And where I usually go, that’s with a twenty-five-percent tip.”

“Only in New York,” Rogan said. “I got a buddy who just moved to the city a year ago from Atlanta. He says, his whole life, he thought he was doing pretty good. Had some money in his pocket. Then he came here and saw what money really is.”

She saw her opening. “Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you at least look like you’re doing better than some folks.”

“You must mean my fine ’do,” Rogan said, running one hand across his shiny bald head. “Thirteen bucks at the Astor Place barber.”

“Nice. I meant the clothes. Sorry, I notice those kinds of things.”

“That’s just taste.”

Ellie didn’t respond.

“Go ahead,” Rogan said with a toss of his hand. “Ask.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She typed another name into the computer and hit the enter key.

“I don’t blame you. You want to know. You want to know how I can wear the clothes in my closet, smoke a decent cigar every once in a while, drive a decent ride. Even for a detective first-grade, it’s a stretch.”

Ellie apparently wasn’t as curious as she thought. She’d seen Rogan smoking a cigar outside on Twenty-first Street two days ago, but hadn’t thought to wonder about its price. And she’d never even seen Rogan in his own car.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It only makes sense you’d speculate. Who wants a partner on the take, right?”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Or dealing drugs on the side. Maybe a few too many bets. When a brother’s got some extra spending money, he must be up to no good. Is that about right?”

Ellie’s eyes were wide, and she was suddenly very aware of the teaspoon full of hazelnut spread in her mouth. Rogan just kept staring at her. Other detectives in the squad were looking at them. She had no idea what to say.

Then Rogan slapped his hands together and began to laugh. At her, not with her. “Oh, lord, someone take a picture of that.”

Other detectives joined the amusement.

“He pulled that speech on me six months ago.” The voice belonged to John Shannon, the detective who sat with his back to hers, facing his own partner. Shannon might have grunted a hello to Ellie, once, a few days ago. “He gets everyone with that. Welcome to the club, Hatcher.”

When the hilarity subsided, she leaned over toward Rogan. “Thanks. I’m in a club now.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Works every time. Look, it’s no big deal. A few years ago, my grandmama died. A few years before that, she married the guy who sang ‘Just Between Us.’” Rogan hummed one bar, and Ellie immediately recognized the tune. “Anyway, she left each of us a little extra money. Not enough to treat the house at a place like Pulse-not like that shit-but, you know, invested in the right places, I can indulge myself once in a while.”