Setting: Sunday, April 1, 1998; New York City:
"Can you believe they've never heard of chocolate honey?" Claire kept her arm entwined with Mac's as the pair strode past small storefronts and littered alleyways. She kept her purse on the arm between her and her husband and kept her grip loose enough that he could draw his weapon if needed. "I am going to have to introduce this city to the one thing it seems to be missing."
Mac laughed and turned to look at his vivacious wife. Stealing a quick kiss from her smiling lips, Mac glanced in each alley they passed, alert despite his casual attitude. He'd grown up on the rough streets of Chicago and did not underestimate the danger of this new city. "I agree. They're culinary neanderthals," Mac teased, delighting in Claire's rippling laugh.
"I can cook."
The hoarse whisper emerged from a sun-lit alley near a dumpster. The pair turned to look at the speaker: a dirty, sallow-skinned, too-thin woman of indeterminable age or beauty. The woman shuffled closer to the edge of the alley, watery eyes darting around warily. She wiped her runny nose on one already encrusted sleeve then turned back to the pair. "I can cook a masterpiece. You like Greek? I can do Greek." She shuffled just a bit closer, clasping a gaudy orange handbag against her torn sweatshirt. "Or Italian? I can do Italian, too. Or burgers."
Claire never took her eyes from the haunted, hungry look on the decrepit woman's face. Those green eyes compelled her to listen. With a small frown, Claire watched as the stranger clenched and unclenched her free hand repeatedly, running her fingers in a stroking motion over the clasp on her bag . . . again and again. "You cook?" ventured the pretty brunette. "What's your name?"
"Yes," the other woman jumped at the implied interest, ignoring Mac's sudden hiss of warning. "I can cook, clean, sew . . . I walk dogs, watch kids, wash windows . . ." the woman's eyes darted once more around at the mass of humanity seething around them in determined ignorance. "I . . ." she licked her lips, a nervous gesture, "I can make it worth your while." She ran her eyes over Claire then Mac and added "both of you." As an afterthought, she added "name's Starr."
Disgust welled in Mac at the woman's blatant sexual proposal, and he ignored the stab of grief the name brought with it. It wasn't the thought of having sex with her so much, though he certainly was not interested. What bothered the detective was the idea that this poor woman had been driven to selling herself. He looked her over, noting the clutching hands, runny nose, watery eyes, fetid breath, and pale skin. By the looks of her, the woman was a heroin junkie. Junkies often turned to prostitution and theft to supply their habit.
Mac slipped his hand towards his pocket, intent on arresting the woman for prostitution just to get her off the streets for a few nights.
"Starr?" Claire's voice sent a jolt of surprise through her husband, but she ignored his stiffening stance.
"Mine's Claire. This is Mac." Claire tried to hide the longing in her voice, but she couldn't hide the desire to help. She felt compelled, connected. "Would you be willing to go someplace more comfortable for this? I don't fancy an alley." Claire slowly let her eyes rove the woman as if she were truly interested in sharing her husband with her.
The woman nodded. "There's . . . uh . . . rooms around the block." Her green eyes darted from Claire to Mac and back. "You sure? Looks like your boyfriend isn't happy about sharing." She started shuffling back into her alley.
"No, I'll share," Mac said, surprising himself but trusting Claire to know what she was doing. "But I do fantasies." He felt Claire pull away and turn to look at him but refused to meet her wide blue eyes. He was afraid he'd break down and just bust the woman if he had to acknowledge the lie by looking at his wife.
"Fantasies? Like teacher and bad student?" Starr looked a bit put-out but didn't leave or out-right refuse.
The detective nodded and shrugged. "I like shower stalls and bathtubs." He looked the woman over, keeping his face neutral. "If you will let us share in a shower . . ." Mac trailed off and felt a small triumph when the woman eagerly took the bait.
"Yes, showers are fine. Let's go." Starr passed them, surprisingly light on her feet for someone in need of a hit.
"No," Claire smiled and slid her arm in the other woman's, turning her in the opposite direction. "This way. Our home is this way."
Stella frowned at the brunette woman with the blue eyes, her racing mind going too quickly to figure out this puzzle. "Your home?" She glanced at the dark-haired man with the blue eyes and immediately pulled her gaze back to the woman. He was too damn good looking and something about him was too damned disciplined. He reminded her of a judge.
Common sense told the narcotics officer that allowing these people to bring her home would be a dangerous mistake. She would be helpless in their house. The shower fantasy thing she didn't believe for a minute; the guy probably wanted her clean. Stella wouldn't mind a hot shower; her utilities had been cut off last week and she'd been living on cold canned food and tap water from the laundry room hose.
Of course, she could walk away and hit up someone else for the money she needed: only enough for a buy so she could make the bust, of course. Once she made the bust, she could drop the cover and access her bank account. She could move back into a real apartment and keep clean. But first she had to make the bust. And in order to do that, she needed money. That led her back to the original problem: no money.
Looking over the woman who guided her down the street, Stella made a quick decision based on instinct. Somehow, she felt this pair was honest, if a little kinky hiring someone for a threesome. Stella could hardly expect as clean-cut a mark a second time. Besides, she could handle herself against these two. All she had to do was stay alert. Her stomach roiled, but she ignored the continuing discomfort.
She nodded. "Okay. Your place. We shower and play. Sounds great." She peeked at the man then snapped her eyes forward again. 'Still too unnerving to look at him.' Something about him felt like her whole world was about to shift and she wasn't sure how to stop it . . . or if she even wanted to.
They walked for some time, and the longer they walked the worse Stella felt. As they crossed into a quiet neighborhood she realized that she wouldn't be getting that score today. This wouldn't be an easy night. Glancing at the nice looking pair she walked between then back at the quiet street lined with pretty brownstones, she wondered what she could do to get out of this mess. Maybe she could call Johnny again.
Surprise lanced through Stella when the pair abruptly turned her towards the steps of a three story brownstone set in a tiny green yard. No curtains hung at the windows, no furniture seemed to loom inside. The place felt abandoned and the narcotic officer's sense of danger ratcheted up. She tried to get her chaotic thoughts in order as the couple led her up the stone steps and into the home.
Boxes stood everywhere, marked with room and content notes. A few pieces of furniture were pushed against a wall in the spacious living room, but only a pair of chairs seemed usable: the rest were piled with smaller containers and newspaper wrapped parcels. Even the glimpse of the kitchen beyond the open doorway showed a home packed tight for moving.
Stella tried to wriggled back out the door, but the woman, Claire, wouldn't let go, though her husband did. "Uh," Stella looked around. "I need to use the bathroom." 'Great, lame excuse, Bonasera!' She gave a hopeful smile at the woman.
Claire smiled back at her and said "sorry this place is a wreck. We just moved in last night and haven't got a chance to unpack yet. There's a working bathroom upstairs." Without releasing Stella, the woman led her guest up flights of stairs to the attic room with the single bed and the open door leading to a neat, clean bathroom. Sparsely furnished but clean were good signs, at least, and Stella nodded, smiling wanly.
She broke free at last and looked nervously at Claire and Mac, who'd followed the women after rooting in a box for a few minutes.
Mac stepped forward, holding out a large towel and matching washcloth, a bottle of avocado shampoo, and a brand new bar of soap. As the nervous woman took them from his hands, he let his eyes quickly size her. "You and Claire are the same size. I'll get you something to wear." He turned towards the door.
Stella clasped the supplies against her chest and backed a step towards the bathroom. Hopefully it had a lock. Suddenly her swimming head seemed to explode in painful stars and the entire room lurched. With a cry, Stella dropped the bath supplies and fell to her knees. Squeezing her eyes shut, she opened her mouth and helplessly vomited all over the floor.
Claire jumped forward to encase Stella in strong arms, pushing her matted hair from her face as the sick woman emptied her stomach.
Mac stepped backwards into the hall as if afraid he'd be covered. "Starr?" His voice held all the worry of a caring friend, though they'd only just met.
Wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, shaking with the weakness that always came with being sick, Stella looked up at the handsome man through pain-filled eyes. "Sorry . . ."
"Is there someone I can call for you?" he asked, his voice still concerned, his blue eyes worried.
Surprised at the offer, Stella covered her mouth, choking down another wave. After a long struggle, she gasped, "Johnny. Call Johnny Kelly." Before she could provide his number, Stella began to vomit once more, barely aware of Claire's soothing, worried tones.
Mac ran down the stairs.
A name wasn't much to go on, but Mac had the latest phone book and an investigator's keen mind. They'd found the woman close by, so he'd start there with his search. If this Johnny was her pimp or handler, he wouldn't be too far from where she trawled. Mac knew this Starr woman would be too weak to do anything to Claire, so he had no qualms leaving the women alone while he dealt with this Johnny character. Why arrest a prostitute when you could get the pimp, too?
Flipping quickly through the pages of the phone directory, Mac found the entries of Kelly rather quickly. There were a lot of them, probably an Irish neighborhood, but only one Jonathan listed. Grimly, the former Chicago cop grabbed his mobile phone and flipped it open. His finger followed the written information as the thumb on his other hand typed out the number, then he brought the device to his ear and listened as it rang.
On the fourth ring, someone picked up. A pleasant baritone said, "John Kelly, can I help you?" He sounded friendly enough, with a decided Brooklyn accent tinted by his Irish ancestry.
Unable to picture the man that went with the voice, Mac immediately replied, "hello. Starr's sick and said to call you." He knew he should have introduced himself, but held back, waiting to see what this guy said.
"All right." Johnny sounded calm as he responded slowly. He paused, as if to think things through, then asked, "where is she?"
Mac gave the address he had only moved into the night before. "I can send her to a hospital," Mac offered.
"Ah, no." The other man replied in his smooth voice. "That won't be necessary. I'll come get her." He paused on the other side then finally asked "and who should I thank?"
Pausing just as long, Mac said "my name's Mac." He didn't add anything else and Johnny didn't ask.
The other man said, "uh, all right, I'll be right there." He hung up, leaving Mac staring thoughtfully at the bare wall of his bare home. Upstairs he could hear Claire getting Starr cleaned up and into the attic bed.
Who'd have thought when he left Chicago that he'd jump right into the bad side of New York City.