Part 15 - Gretel: Cash & Crimes

The alarm blasted its shrill siren over and over. I reached a lazy arm from beneath the sheet to staunch the piercing sound, slapping at the button that would bring my ears relief. Most mornings I’m ready to hop out of bed and get the day rolling. Not today, not that it matters. I forced myself out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom and cranked the shower to scalding. The sting felt good, easing tension along my back and shoulders. Thoughts drifted into my brain as consciousness began to take over. What did I get myself into? More importantly — how was I going to get out?

If you hadn’t lied and hadn’t stolen money, hadn’t wanted to kill some poor hooker, hadn’t decided to get caught up with some Russian sex-sicko — if you’d just done your job the way you should have, it wouldn’t be this way.

“Shut up,” I mumbled, envisioning some poor dead hooker looking up from the floor of the shower, blood pooling around her, her eyes open, searing into my soul. “Fuck you!” I kicked out where her head should have been, slipped and crashed to the floor, heard her wailing — or was it mine? Pain shooting up through my shoulder and neck, burning hot water pelting my face as I struggled to make sense of the view. Black and white spots danced before my eyes as if the world had shifted backwards in time.

Can’t change the past, and you can’t move forward if you keep looking back.

I had to live with the choice I’d made and roll with whatever came my way. I blinked up into the downpour, pushed over and up onto my knees, the shampoo washing over my face like ocean waves. I let them come, let them cascade over me, threatening to drown, yet no promises of washing away the stains that I knew lingered. I could feel the guilt on the tips of my fingers, like soot from a fire, like dirt from a grave.

I climbed out of the coffin and stood there in the wash of pale light, my reflection looking back at me. The brush on the counter, my hair all curls and waves and damp conspiracy. White shirt and jeans. I didn’t bother with the bra. I’d found so long ago that no bra opened doors, and in this line of work, I needed every door open. White shirt, jeans — simple, easy, practical. Let them look, grope in you need to, if you dared. Ignore me for who I am to your ultimate regret.

All I had to do was choose which boots to wear. I stared at the many pairs of boots lined up on my closet floor and selected a low-heeled, side-zipped, black boot that came up to my knees. I could hear the rain hitting the window, the wind whipping through the alley. Another dreary fucking night in the Lower East Side.

I stared at myself in the mirror after applying my daily dose of mascara. Guilty. That’s what I was. But, I had a plan to fix things. I knew I could fix it all and stop Ivan in the process. I just needed to get back on track. That’s all. So, think, G, think. I was sure the money bag had been taken from under the dumpster. I hadn’t seen it when I went back last night. I’d go back this morning and take advantage of the sunlight to look again. Maybe I missed it, maybe it got kicked in under the dumpster. That would be first. I grabbed a black leather jacket and my bag and shot out the door to my car.

I didn’t know if Smiley’s looked sleazier at night or during the day. Did it matter? The street lights revealed the disrepair the building was in and how old the signs were. During the day, the decay cried out like a cock on a Times Square billboard. White paint dulled from dirt and who knew what else. Rotting window sills that leaked water into the upper floor offices. Ochre-colored pipes that jutted out from the walls, threatening to spill their contents down the alley. At least the neon at night made it look more colorful. I stepped into the alleyway, a perfumed hankerchief over my face. I knew the smells of piss, puke, and fucking; I didn’t need a refresher.

I approached the scene of the crime. It appeared someone tried to hose away the girl’s blood, but only managed to water it down before it dried. I stepped carefully around the stains, thinking stepping in some guy’s lost seed would be less incriminating than picking up the victim’s blood. I didn’t want any part of that girl near or on me.

Because you’re guilty.

Approaching the big dumpster, I could see no sign of the paper bag anywhere. I knew I wasn’t going to get face down on the ground and look, so I stepped back until I could bend upside down and see under the bin — nothing. My hair pulled against some goo as I stood up. “Eww,” I cringed, reached up to feel bits of my hair stuck together. “Fuck,” I sneered. On a positive note, protein, if that’s what it was, is supposed to be really great for shiny locks. I kept trying to tell myself that, all the while wondering where the closest bathroom with a working sink was. What if it wasn’t jizz? But were Smiley’s bathrooms any better? A black light test was out of the question.

That’s when it dawned on me: Wolfe. I bet that bastard knew a lot, maybe even found himself a bit better off thanks to a brown bag. He was the one eyeing me behind Smiley’s, the only one I think might have seen me slinking out from behind the dumpster. I imagine he wouldn’t have known who I was since I was blending in with the locals. I needed to talk to him. What if he recognized me? I was going to have to take that chance. Or, maybe I should just walk away right now. Walk away and pretend I didn’t see anything, didn’t know anything, and clean the jizz out of my hair. But was that a chance I was willing to take?

As I turned, I noticed the cameras, two of them, mounted high behind Smiley’s. One aimed each way so they entire alleyway was covered. If they worked, if Smiley’s cheap ass even recorded on them. I wondered about that and banged on the back door to Smiley’s. It was a chance. I didn’t think anyone would actually answer, but what the hell, right? Some fry cook or tired stripper was sure to open the door and come out for a cigarette, right? And get murdered. Maybe not.

After banging a few more times, I walked back towards the street, disappointed.

Hmmm, what next? I needed more information. My gut kept telling me to just walk away, but I ignored it. I was going to talk to Wolfe. After all, I was a sex crime investigator. I had a good reason to talk to him. I whipped out my cell and called Charlie. I hated talking to him, but he could get me the info I wanted. And really, I was screwing a Russian human trafficker for information, flirting with Prince Charming really shouldn’t be that tough.

“Hey, Charlie. You at the office?” So much for flirting.

“Gretel, I am. Where are you?”

“I’m just checking out the scene behind Smiley’s. You got any info on it?”

He chuckled, I don’t know what he thought was so funny. “Yeah, seems Smiley’s star stripper was iced. Some chick named Red. You know her?”

“I knew of her. I never really had any interaction with her, but I’d seen her around the bar.” He didn’t need to know any more than that. He was an admin, a tab-keeper, a desk jockey. He knew nothing of undercover work, the stakes, the sacrifices. And he wouldn’t understand if I told him what I’d accomplished in finding Red and working my way into her network to Ivan.

“I heard she was pretty limber. What a shame for such talent to get wasted.”

Stupid fuck. He was probably trying to figure out how to make an espresso on that new machine he had in the office. “I need some info in the interviews. You got anything on a cat named Wolfe?” If not, I don’t need you.

“What ya need?”

“I need his address, and I want any files you have on him DropBox’d to me at my alt. You know the one. I’d like to pay him a visit and have a chat.”

He laughed again, “Local cop. What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“He was Red’s side dick. I hear there was some tension. I just want to ask him a few things. You gonna?”

“Hang on. I need to call the precinct in charge. This isn’t ours, Gretel. It’s local. Not part of your case. Why you asking?”

“I’ll determine that after I talk to the big bad Wolfe. Just text me the address when you get it. Thanks, Charlie.” I hung up on him.

My phone binged a couple minutes later with Wolfe’s address on my screen. The chalk outline in the middle of the alley in front of me looked up and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said.

“I have to see this through,” I said, my voice floating across through the dank air behind Smiley’s Cabaret.

Wolfe lived not that far away in a brownstone on Continental. It was a short walk. I ducked in and out from under awnings and in doorways to avoid the drizzle, keeping my eyes peeled lest he walk right by. I didn’t think the fuck would recognize me, but I didn’t want to take any chances. White shirt, a little drizzle, my nipples jutting out from underneath the damp cotton. He’d look, look twice. Everyone I passed did, but I pretended not to see.

I strode up to the front door, knocked, and waited, not even sure what I’d say. I crossed my arms, ignored the passers-by. No one came to the door. I knocked again and heard some scuffling. I tried to peer through the glass on the door. The view was distorted, but I could make out a shadow moving about. I banged on the door harder. “I know you’re in there, Wolfe. Open up.” Still no answer, and that’s all I could do for it. I wasn’t here as an official member of law enforcement, just a private citizen, a concerned patron of Smiley’s, a friend of the dead girl, something like that. Anything would do if it would get him to open the door, maybe let me in.

I stepped away from the door and noted the alley. “Follow the bread crumbs,” I whispered under my breath.

I stepped around the side, pushing around the overflowing trash cans — what a dive! Around the back corner, two doors down and definitely Wolfe’s house, I could see the back door standing open. Had he skipped out the back? I hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t seen anyone.

“Wolfe, you there?” I stepped up to the door and peeked in the opening and frowned into the darkness. Pizza boxes and trash were piled on the floor. The kitchen sink was stacked with dirty dishes advertising an all-you-can-eat maggot buffet. How did anyone live like that? What an animal!

I took a step onto the dingy linoleum floor and pulled my weapon. He’d see my tits first, the nine mil a split second too late. They always did.

“Wolfe?” I hollered, “You in?”

Why didn’t he answer? I took another step forward, weapon at ready, and a crushing pain exploded in the back of my head.