“So noted. Actually, it might be helpful for me to speak with her, if you don’t object.”
“Go right ahead. But fair warning. She’s feeling very protective of Mrs. Anders at the moment.”
Varying approaches on interviewing the wife of the Chief of Police occupied her mind all the way back to Homicide. Diplomacy could be key, and that particular key tended to go slippery in her fingers. But she’d hold it steady. Next came the trick of interviewing a cop’s wife—the top cop’s wife—without letting her suspect you suspected the woman she was “feeling very protective of.”
Just have to pull it off, Eve thought. That’s why they paid her the medium bucks.
“Lady! Yo, lady!”
It took her a minute, but she made the voice, and the small package it came from. Coffee-black skin, vivid green eyes, a curly high-top of hair. The boy hauled the same battered suitcase—approximately the size of Staten Island—he’d hauled in December when he’d been hustling the fake cashmere scarves inside it near the splatted body of a jumper on Broadway.
“Didn’t I tell you before I’m not a lady.”
“You’re a cop. I tracked you down, and I’ve been waiting here, and these other cops tried hassling me about why wasn’t I in school and that shit.”
“Why aren’t you in school and that shit?”
“’Cause I got business.” He shot a finger at her. “With you.”
“I’m not buying anything.”
“I gotta tip.”
“Yeah? I’ve got one, too. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
“Why not? You can’t chew it, you just spit it out anyway.”
That wasn’t stupid, Eve noted. “Okay, what’s your tip?”
“I’ll tell you, but I’m pretty thirsty.” He gave her the same grin he’d flashed the previous December.
“Do I look like a mark, shortie?”
“You look like the top bitch cop in New York City. That’s word on the street.”
“Yeah.” Maybe she could spare a minute, and the price of a Pepsi. “That is the correct word. Give me the tip, and if I like it, I’ll pop for a drink.”
“I know where there’s suspicious activity, and suspicious characters. I’m gonna take you.”
“Kid, you’re hard pressed to find anywhere in the city where there aren’t suspicious activities and suspicious characters.”
He shook his head in disgust. “You a cop or what?”
“We established that. And I’ve got cop work to do.”
“Same guy, same place, same times. Every day for five weeks. I seen it. Maybe they see me, too, but they don’t mind me ’cause I be a kid.”
No, Eve thought, not stupid. Most people didn’t see kids. “What does this same guy do at the same place at the same times every day for five weeks that makes him a suspicious character involved in suspicious activity?”
“He goes in with a big old shopping bag heavy the way he carries it. And a couple minutes later, bop! he comes out again, and he’s got a different bag. It ain’t heavy either.” The kid adjusted the airboard slung at his back.
“Where is this den of iniquity?”
The kid’s brow furrowed like an elderly grandfather’s. “Ain’t no den. It’s a store. I’m gonna take you. It’s a good tip. I oughta get an orange fizzy.”
“You oughta get a kick in the ass.” But she pulled out credits, passed them over, jerked a thumb at Vending. While he plugged in credits, she considered. The kid was sharp enough, and had probably seen just what he said. Meaning the store was a front—or a beard—for passing off wallets, bags, and whatever else the street thief could lift from tourists and New Yorkers foolish enough to get their pockets picked.
The kid sucked on the fizzy. “We gotta get, so you can catch them.”